Must Love Dogs
by The Smart Cookie
Summary: Holmes told us in "The Gloria Scott" how he came to meet his then one-and-only friend, Victor Trevor, back in his college days. What he failed to divulge about that noteworthy meeting and its subsequent results is detailed here. Non-slash.
1. The Dogs of War are Loosed

Must Love Dogs

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters from said series.

Hello, all. I hope you're not put off when I say that this is my first Sherlock Holmes story. However, I've certainly _read_ enough to at least get some idea of how to emulate the wonderfully sophisticated style of these stories. Please forgive me if I'm a little rough.

Many thanks to KCS for pre-reading a Super-Size chunk of this story while it was still in the works to make sure it wasn't a total suck fest. Reviews and critique are always appreciated.

"_You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor? He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college... Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull pup freezing on to my ankle as I went down to chapel... It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective. I was laid by the heels for ten days, and Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute's chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close friends..."_

_Sherlock Holmes, The "Gloria Scott"_

_

* * *

  
_

_Whitechapel, 1880._

Stands.

At long last, I have managed to unearth him and his accomplice, one Bennett by name. (The latter being significantly less important, but an altogether unexpected surprise, nonetheless.) Within this very hour, they both shall be within the firm grip of the law... Well, if one interprets the word "law" to mean that these brutes will be left in the oversight of Lestrade and Gregson, then I shall certainly rephrase. For indeed, within the hour, Benedict Stands and Jeremiah Bennett with be within the firm grasp of _handcuffs_, at the very least. And this knowledge gives me immense satisfaction.

They've begun to move, prowling along in the dark and disappearing momentarily. So, taking a moment to tap the ashes from my cigarette, I shove myself off of this lamp post and begin to stalk them at a snail's pace. I will admit, I sometimes wish I were not in possession of such great eagerness. One step too close to this nasty lot, and this disguise will have been in vain, not to mention Lestrade's little stakeout. There is little doubt that it will be _I_ who am in the handcuffs to-night if I cannot produce the criminals after dragging a quarter of the Yard down here on such a bitter, foggy night as this.

Even the latter, however, would shrivel compared to my _perfect_ disguise being rendered useless. The rags, destroyed boots, cap, and chimney soot were all easy enough to come by, of course, but it did take me just over an hour to prepare a cream makeup with _exactly_ the right tint of purple for the black eye. I have made a small study of bruises and how their hues tend to vary from assorted injuries and on different skin tones. It would make a fascinating monograph topic, actually...

I do need to pick up my feet a bit more to just barely see the two figures ambling forward in the fog. The Yard finds it difficult to believe that I am perusing two potentially dangerous men on a hellish night such as this for the sake of a petty robbery. I do, however, believe that these men, or Stands, at least, has some connection with the stabbing (and _subsequent_ robbery) of a pawnbroker in the west end. And this "connection" is, no doubt, that Stands, on the night of January eighteenth, walked into the store of a Herman Kolfsheim at seven o'clock. Inside, he presented Kolfsheim with a gold pocket watch (stolen, no doubt), claiming he wished to pawn the item. Once Kolfsheim had been sufficiently distracted by inspecting the watch, Stands, with his left hand, withdrew a serrated dagger and, with one quick and forceful motion of his arm, stabbed the man beneath his third rib. Kolfshiem then collapsed—first forward, onto the counter, and then backwards onto the floor, where he fractured his skull upon landing. Stands then vaulted over the counter, rummaged around for the strongbox, and made his exit. Quite trivial, actually.

Curse this fog! I can barely even see my hand in front of my face, much less my two men. I am forced to resort to something of a slow jog just to keep them within my sight—much too conspicuous for my liking.

Ah, there they are. They're turning off the main sidewalk into one of many narrow, filthy alleyways that is more than likely to be crawling with Stand's thugs. You just can't help but love London after dark, can you?

Initially, I did not see much in the alleyway, but now I begin to perceive light cutting through the fog. Some vagrants huddled around a fire, nothing more, although I do not blame them. Finally, there is something of a clearing up ahead. The ally widens ever so slightly here, making it so that two people actually have room to pass each other without touching. Including Stands and Bennett, I count seven men gathered here. I slow my pace down and continue walking through the opening into where the walls once again squeeze the alley into something of a narrow path. I have only to make my exit here and alert Lestrade's men on the other side.

"What's your 'urry?"

Bennett bounds in front of me, blocking my escape. Did I mention the fact that he is no small man? His thugs, taking his cue, block the gap behind me or otherwise surround me.

"What gives?" I demand angrily in a tediously practiced and refined (oh, the irony!) cockney accent.

"You was certainly in a hurry when you was _followin_' us down the street a few minutes ago. Isn't that right, Stands?"

"Indeed," Stands responds over his shoulder uninterestedly, disappearing into the doorway of a squalid, derelict flat. No doubt that is where their loot is hidden, but why the deuce is he going in there _now_?

Meanwhile, upon Bennett's stressing of the word "followed," all six of his men have either taken a tentative step forward or have balled their fists in preparation for the brawl to begin.

Think quickly, man. Time is of the essence!

"'Ey, 'ey, 'ey! I didn't come here to muck around with your gang. And even if I was, I sure as the devil ain't dumb enough to do it alone. 'Ave ya seen a bloke from 'round these parts, name of Gates?"

"I ain't never 'eard of no 'Gates.' And what would the likes of ye be wantin' with this 'Gates?'"

"That's my business."

Almost in perfect unison, the gang takes yet another step forward, intent on beating me to a pulp, if not for Bennett raising his hands in an order for them to hold off until we're through.

"Now, then, Mista'...?"

"Fine. I'm lookin' to find Gates 'cuz 'e owes me! Promised to grease my 'and with some of 'is loot from Kent if I came by!"

Something is going horribly wrong here, it does not take a logician to see that.

"Well, I told ya, we ain't got no 'Gates' 'ere." he hisses, not at all swayed nor impressed by my rather botched cover story.

"Shut ya boat, Jem."

I cannot help but reel as Stands emerges from the apartment. He steps up to me and gives me a scrutinizing once-over from toe to head, and somehow seems satisfied that I am a legitimate wanderer as he.

"Let the river trash go," he finally declares, using the same flippant tone as before.

"'Ow do we know 'e ain't got any cutter on 'im?" one of the nameless brutes ventures.

"I said, get 'im outta my-"

He stops mid sentence, eyes fixed on me. I do not like the stare he is giving me, not one bit. He throws back his head and laughs quite suddenly—there is something amiss, no doubt, and I do not know what it is. Only that the danger here is immediate and deadly.

"Nice," he says, getting a hold on his composure, "_Very_ nice. Y'know, for a second there, you almost had me fooled?"

I think my heart has just stopped beating in my chest. I plant my feet in a firm position, ready to run at a moment's notice. Oh, God, why had I not come better prepared? A knife is sufficient against two or three, but _eight_ surpasses the realm of even having a conceivable chance of survival. And Lestrade's men... Well, they are useless _period_.

"But it just ain't workin', copper, and so... unfortunately for _you_," he says much too gleefully, vanishing back into the apartment and yelling so that he can be heard, "your reward is to become _our_ night's entertainment!"

He steps back outside with two leather throngs in his hand, and tied to the end of either one of them are two enormous Rottweilers.

Lord have mercy on me.

Surely, the place is breaking out into a chorus of anticipating laughs and whoops at the prospect of these massive beasts being unleashed upon me, but my focus is unwavering on these dogs. I would have thought that upon catching sight of me, a stranger in their territory, they would bark and growl and lunge with all their might against the restraint of their leashes. What seems to be happening, though, is exactly the opposite.

As soon as they catch sight of me, they both freeze in their tracks and are silent. They make no movements, but fix their eyes and seemingly all their senses on me. What I see in those homely faces is not ferocious madness (at least not yet) but something akin to... _hunger?_ No. Desire. An acute desire and determination that can be satiated by one thing alone... to get the target...

The suggestion frightens me ten times more than a snarling, brainless, beast.

"I'd like you to meet a coup'la friends o' mine, copper," he grins merrily, to which the rest of the gang relapses into smiling and prepaeing silence, not unlike the animals themselves.

"This 'ere's Bruno and Rex."

"'Ey, now, whatcha think you're doin'?" I sputter rather more nervously than I should, raising my hands in defense.

"Fine. You wanna play like _that_, I'll just be right outta your way now—"

"Indeed, you will," he nods, although I take no comfort in his reassurance.

"I neva' meant no 'arm, me old china, I swear it. Just give me leave and—"

"Tell you what I'm gonna give you, _copper_. I'm gonna give you a five second head start before I let go of these leashes and let the dogs take care of the rest. One."

That's it. I've failed. I spin around automatically to retreat the same way I arrived, but there are not one, but two brutes blocking the narrow path to safety.

"Two."

Three men in front of me. Are there _no_ openings whatsoever in this—!?

"Three. Betta' get runnin', copper!"

The flat. If I can just make it out the front door of this house—

"Four."

I shove past Stands and the beasts themselves, still following my every move patiently, and make it through the doorway before he can get to five, sprinting for the hallway, although it is rather dark in here and I have _no_ idea where I am going.

"Five."

I hear a clinking of metal on stone as the leashes drop.

* * *

A/N: Short, I know, and very, VERY rough around the edges. It gets better after this, I promise. I think I got myself into the swing of it, here. Don't believe me? Read on.


	2. Sunday, February 14, 1874

The whole affair took place six years ago, to begin with. February 14, 1874, to be more precise, back in my university days. I had been awake the whole night before, thoroughly analyzing every book, article, and any other form of data I had managed to collect on the new element dubbed "gallium," which had only just been discovered earlier on in said year, I recall. My research was hardly even halfway through when the sun began to rise. Even I had to admit that on this particular bout of my researching-mode, I had actually become quite weary once morning came. Subsequently, by the time I had gotten dressed, cleaned myself up, shaved, and for perhaps an hour at the most slumbered in dreams of the crystalline, silver-white metal, it was nearly nine o'clock. So, grabbing my hat and ignoring my stick, I headed out the door of that cave which passed for my dormitory, intent on going to chapel.

Despite the fact that my parents had the good grace to have my brother and I baptized into the Roman Catholic church, I am by no means what one would label as "devout." My attendance of the masses had mostly been out of habit rather than worship. (Although, as any shrewd man will know, there are no atheists on nights preceding the exams.) So, perhaps there is some sort of "higher being" pulling on the strings of our humble universe here and there to make certain we don't bring an apocalypse on ourselves. But even if this is true, then why the deuce should I let any one or group of people tell me the proper way to go about revering it?

But I do digress. I found the services to be most calming when I did go on Sunday mornings. There was also a service on Saturday evenings that I very rarely went to, as even I, as friendless as I was, _still_ had better things to do on a Saturday evening than spending it in church. Sundays were most unpleasantly stagnant, (some things do not change), and I found the artwork, organ-playing, and overall air of peacefulness of that building to work miracles (no pun intended) for my overly-cluttered mind on some occasions.

There was also the walk to and from the little chapel itself. To get from my hall of residence to the chapel, all one had to do was walk roughly a block along a paved sidewalk, but I invariably found an alternative route for myself. I would simply exit by the front door and walk around behind building, where there was a somewhat obscure, fairly narrow dirt road encased in thick woods on either side of it leading to the same place. It took slightly longer than going via the paved road, but I would be rather dishonest if I said that I did not relish in taking... "the path less traveled," shall we say?

It was perfectly tranquil, as well. Hansoms could never travel by it, obviously, and I don't think I ever met another person strolling along whilst I was on it. Or at least, not until that noteworthy morning...

I was very much lost in my thoughts as I strode down that narrow path, but distracted as I was, I began to come to the conclusion that taking this particular route on that day had not been the best idea. It had rained the previous night, and consequently, the dirt road had molten to one of mud with fairly deep puddles dotting it the whole way. And I _knew_ they were fairly deep because whilst in my lapse of attention, I had put my foot right into one and soaked a good three or four inches of my trouser leg along with my shoe in cold, muddy water (and swearing a diverse folly of words that would have surely landed me in the confessional box before the mass even started.) Needless to say, I kept myself in reality as I continued on in a significantly less cordial mood than I had been in when I left my room.

As I jumped over one gigantic water-hole of a puddle, pondering over where I could obtain a sample of this so-called "gallium," something of a quick, scuffling noise coming from behind me caught my attention. This being highly unusual, I turned around and initially saw nothing. After hearing a loud, gruff bark, however, I instinctively dropped my eyes to move my field of vision to the ground. Only then did I realize that there was a fairly large and angry-looking dog running directly towards me at top speed.

Surely, my eyes went wide and my mouth gaped in terror as I pivoted back around and sprinted as fast as my legs were capable of carrying me. If I knew one thing about animals, particularly dogs, it was that they did not, for some unfathomable reason privy to the beasts, like me at _all_. The dog was still very much intent on hunting me down even after I had been running for a good three or four minutes. I heard it voice its ugly bark once again, and turned my head quickly to get a look at it once more. I immediately observed that it was in fact a bull terrier from the homely, queer, egg-like shape of its head.

I was beginning to tire, and apparently the one second I had turned my head for was a second too long. I fell down onto one knee, from which I recovered quickly enough, but it was enough to give the dog the advantage. It sprung forward like a kangaroo and clamped its gaping jaws onto my right ankle. The inertia from the abrupt stop and the force of the beast barreling into me was more than I could compensate for, and I fell, going face-down into the muck.

Strangely enough, at that moment of hitting the ground, the rush of panic shooting through me was _not_ due to the monster with its teeth sunk firmly into my ankle, but because I realized I was drowning. My whole body took such a shock from the impact that for a second, I felt unable to lift my head from the pool of filthy, freezing, water it was currently at least halfway submerged in.

When I did recover at least some use of my muscles, I immediately jerked my neck up and blew out the mouthful of mud and grit before sucking in as much air as my lungs could possibly hold. Then, all at once, it hit me—the excruciating rush of delayed pain had begun raging its fury upon my nerves, and only intensified by the second as the animal continued to wrench its head back and forth in a seeming effort to detach my foot from my leg at the ankle.

I struggled to roll over on my back to try and shake the beast off or kick it or something, but found attempting to move around in the freezing mud absolutely useless. Only then did I cry out in distress, (loud enough to be heard in Dartmoor, I might add.)

"**A-A-A-AGH!"**

To this day, I do not think I've ever willingly let such fear be clearly defined in my voice, and that was apart from the very real physical agony I felt. If somebody was going to be so kind as to assist me in getting this hell-hound off of me, they certainly had to hear me first.

I continued to yell as I tried with all my might to shake the dog off, when I realized that to my instantaneous horror, the trees, the sky, the road, all the colors around me—were beginning to run and fade like a saturated painting. Even in my half-conscious state, I knew that I would probably not be alive if I were to pass out right there and leave that beast to have its way with me.

"_Heel, Percy... Heel!_"

I just barely managed to distinguish a human voice giving the command. Almost as soon as it was given, I felt as if an enormous pressure had been removed from my ankle. The pain was still there and prominent as ever, of course, but something in my subconscious alerted me to the fact that the dog's mouth was no longer clamped down on my foot, and my eyes closed. Even at this, however, I was still somehow aware of a hand on my shoulder, and felt that I was being turned over.

"Sherlock?"

I believe my mind had snapped for a moment, for I was thoroughly startled by the thought that the person kneeling over me was somebody I knew, judging from the concern in his voice and his use of my Christian name. In that very instant, however, the mystery was cleared. I had no friends in college, and since most people found their few, brief encounters with me to be as instantly forgettable as my surname, I had been dubbed and mainly known throughout my classes as the curious phenomenon known only as "Sherlock."

Regardless of the name he called me, I found myself unable to respond to him other than perhaps giving a strained moan.

"Sherlock!" he persisted, frantically tapping the side of my face a few times in an effort to drag me back into consciousness. Once again, I could not respond. I then felt the person grab my shoulders and pull me up into a sitting position. This was enough to smack me back into my senses, and I opened my eyes, only to immediately shut them again at the blinding whiteness of the overcast sky. I was awake, though, and attempted to assist the person who was now in the process of hauling me to my feet. After a minute or so, I was standing upright on one foot, my arm hanging around someone's shoulder and his 'round my back, and leaning on them heavily. I felt I was once again loosing the battle between standing and fainting, and my head hung down listlessly for a moment as we stood there.

"Sherlock?"

I lifted my head and turned to look at my companion for the first time. I found myself staring into a face that was fair, as youthful as my own, and clean-shaven, with blonde hair and pale blue eyes. I recognized him instantly, for he sat behind me in my psychology class.

_Oh, God, what is his name...? _

"Vic...Vi—Trevor?" I stammered.

He nodded once.

"Come on, we need to get you to a hospital right away."

As we spun around to get me to the place, which was, thankfully, only at the street corner, I realized that I could not put much weight on my injured foot without fairly collapsing from the pain. And so we started, Victor more or less dragging me, back up the little dirt road, his faithful mutt keeping a good five or six paces behind us. Neither one of us spoke a word. I believe that internally, we were both aware that I did not want to hear his apologies any more than he my impassioned threats to have that vicious mongrel destroyed.

A few minutes after we had begun to move, I began to feel extremely cold. Not that I hadn't been before, but it was as if my body temperature was beginning to plummet by the second, and I had started to shiver uncontrollably. I looked down at my one limp, aching, frozen hand to discover that it, indeed, was sporting a few small patches of blue, near-frostbitten skin. No doubt my feet and lips had already begun to turn the same shade, as well, for once Trevor stole a glance at my face, I noticed he had become quite alarmed and began putting in every effort to pull me along more quickly.

Well, even at the speediest pace we could both possibly muster, it took us a good twenty minutes or so just to reach the end of the road and get to the sidewalk. By that time, the combined forces of pain, exhaustion, and hypothermia had drained me once again to some half-coherent state and just barely able to keep myself from falling asleep right then and there.

Prying open my eyes and raising my head once more, I saw that there were a number of my classmates, probably just leaving the House of Red Leaves for breakfast, heading towards us. Catching sight of me, they froze. Some even pointed and laughed, for indeed, being absolutely coated in mud on my whole front side and drenched on my back, I certainly must have made quite the spectacle. As we drew closer, however, those who chortled were silenced when they realized my condition. They became serious and (surprisingly so) quite concerned, offering to help carry me and to alert a doctor of my arrival. One chap even slung my limp arm over his shoulder and locked his own 'round my back, taking much weight off of Trevor's load and making it so that I did not have to plant my injured foot on the ground. Even to this day, however, I still don't know who the deuce the fellow was...

I looked up and saw about four or five others fairly yanking a doctor out the front door of the hospital and pointing to me. He was a tall, pale-skinned man with thick sideburns and tight, curly hair of a chestnut tint, middle-aged. His eyes widened ever so slightly upon first sight of me, but his face soon dropped to an expression that could only be described as the epitome of disappointment. He gave a visibly heavy sigh, and it took no great deductions to see that I was going to be a piece of work and a half.

Trevor and the unnamed other hauled me up the six stone steps to the door, and I finally lost the battle, passing out right at the man's feet.

* * *

A/N: So, how are we doing? Anybody curious yet?


	3. Monday, February 15

When I awoke some time later, I found myself to be lying in a fairly small, yet accommodating bed. I was in a half-sitting position, comfortably propped up on several pillows with blankets tucked around me.

Also, I was a little not unsettled, but relieved, nonetheless, to realize that I was clean; there was not a trace of mud to be found on me, which could only mean that someone had slipped me out of my (probably ruined) clothes and into a white, loose, comfortable wool shirt and trousers of the same make.

_A complete stranger (or strangers) has stripped me, scrubbed me, and dressed me without my even being aware of it...?_

The very idea made me cringe and brought on a very rare blush. Ah, well, perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved.

I turned my attention to my foot to see that it had been tightly bandaged and was propped atop a pillow, as well. Whatever pain medication they had me on, it had obviously not worn off yet. Although a dull ache persisted in my right leg, it was nothing compared to the stabbing, crushing sensation that had plagued me before.

There were a few quick raps on the door frame, and I looked up to see the same doctor who had "greeted" me earlier on. He flashed a smile and entered.

"Good afternoon, son."

_Is he talking to _me_?_

I stole two brief, darting glimpses to my left and to my right only to find the place completely unoccupied except for _moi_. I was in a private room and not some crowded ward, so obviously my stay was being payed for. And this man was certainly not my father, but nonetheless...

"Erm... Yes, good day, doct... Is it _afternoon_, doctor?"

"Yes, indeed. You were sound asleep for a good and solid twenty-four hours, my son. Lord knows you needed it. Most people don't doze off the way you did until _after_ we give them the morphine, although I seem to recall that you were something of a mess, to put it lightly, when your friends brought you in yesterday," he said, crossing the room and leaning on the windowsill, peeking out for a moment. This was not an Englishman. His somewhat ungraceful accent was distinctly American—a New Englander, to be more specific, the giveaway being his total inability to completely pronounce any word ending in the letter "r." Apparently, he was also a fellow of particularly good humor. That, and his insistence upon calling me "son" gave me a premonition that this visit was going to be anything but punctual.

"...Yes."

"Regardless, you're in good hands. I'm Doctor Jack Stevenson. I'll be taking care of you for the next week or so."

"A week!?"

I tried to keep my tone as polite as I possibly could, but did a very poor job of concealing the dread in my voice.

"Oh, definitely. You've split the cartilage in your ankle, and you also have a minor fracture that will take some time to reset. Plus, there is a small risk of infection, though I'm not too worried about that."

"Yes, but... a whole week? No. I've my classes."

"Ah, yes, you are a University student, Mister-"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes," I brusquely interrupted.

"Well, Mister Holmes, I'm sure one of your friends would be good enough to bring a few of your books when they drop by for a visit."

I let out a plain, frustrated sigh. Obviously this blithering excuse for a medical man had no idea what he was talking about.

"Now, don't be so glum," he smiled compassionately, trying to cheer me up. I'm certain I did give him a look that was worthy of pity, but if not for my leg keeping me prostrate, I think I would have bounded across the bed and strangled the man.

"In fact, you did have a visitor just over an hour ago—had to send him away because you were still fast asleep. He did ask for your suit, however," he added in an offhand manner.

"Why on earth would he ask for my suit?"

"To have it laundered for you, of course. I did mention that you were-"

"Caked from head to toe in mud, I know, Doctor. I was _there_ when it happened, thank you," I shot hotly at him. He gave an amused laugh in response.

"Of course, Mister Holmes, of course."

_Oh, my head hurts. Idiot doctors, angry dogs, Victor Trevor paying to have my suit cleaned, for some reason..._

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for a moment. So much to sort through and none of it made any sense...

"Are you hungry?"

I opened my eyes and looked back over at the doctor. This was the first time I'd really observed the whole of him, and a mischievous smirk passed my lips as I prepared to conduct an examination of my own.

"No, but _you_ are."

Obviously he had not been expecting or prepared for this response, and his thin frame stiffened ever so slightly against the sill as he studies me with some bewilderment.

"How do you figure?"

"Well, I can deduce that your two some-odd glances out the window were directed at the House of Red Leaves café, or at least at the upright-chalkboard in front of said place displaying the daily specials, which today, as it is on every Monday, is New England clam chowder. I observe from your unusual accent that you are not only American, but a Massachusetts man, most likely from the port district of Boston or the outskirts of that city. Your wristwatch reads 12:34. Twelve thirty, then, is your usual break time, I gather, from the two looks you have given the watch since entering this room. After dealing with a particularly trying patient... oh, if I may point out those four small, curved red marks you have on both of your palms, which, I believe, are the result of balling your fists quite forcefully in an effort to try and hold back your temper. Also your jaw, which you were no doubt clenching at the time, is still ever so slightly set. So, after dealing with this person, you hoped to make quick work of establishing a friendly introduction with your newest patient before going on your break."

I reclined once more, thoroughly satisfied at the flabbergasted expression I'd managed to set onto the good doctor's face. I crossed my arms behind my head informally as he shook his own, mouth moving noiselessly and eyes bulging in shocked silence.

"Now, then, Doctor, are there any points which I have not made clear?" I asked casually, as if my little hobby were the most normal one in the world.

"What subject did you say you were majoring in, Mister Holmes?"

I endeavored to act more annoyed than I actually felt that he had opted to pose his own question in lieu of answering mine.

"I did not. But if you really must know, it is chemistry."

"... _Chemistry,_" he repeated incredulously, more than likely thinking me to have spoken in jest.

"That is what I said, Dr. Stevenson," I replied. It was about this time that I actually had to put in an effort to maintain a straight face.

"Amazing... I'm speechless, Mister Holmes. You just described half my day in a nutshell. You... you couldn't _possibly_ have known any of that, you were barely even awake when I came in here."

"Simple observation and deduction. Quite trivial, in fact."

"Trivial!" He grinned, shaking his head.

"You'd better get on with your lunch before your break time is up," I pointed out.

"Indeed," he said, realizing, taking one more glance at his watch. He pushed himself off the sill and stood in front of my bed.

"Can I get you anything before I go? You're sure you're not hungry?"

As soon as he uttered the word "hungry," some delayed response in my stomach came roaring back to life with a yearning growl. I had not eaten since breakfast on Saturday morning.

"Actually, Doctor, now that you mention it... Some food would be most welcome."

He smiled and gave a single nod.

"Then I'll have a meal sent up to you right away."

"Right. Thank you, Doctor. And enjoy your chowder," I added after he had stepped out of the room, to which I heard him laugh as he walked down the hall.

_I wonder which shall kill me first: the injury or the treatment?_

_

* * *

  
_

Well, there is little else to tell of that day. Some while after Dr. Stevenson left, a nurse brought me in a plate of some kind of mutton in beef broth with a tall glass of cool tea, which I could have devoured completely before she even made it out the door, had I not been being polite. After the stew was gone, I looked over at the glass of tea.

_Now, I fully acknowledge that I, myself, am not the ideal embodiment of normality, but I do say that it takes a _special_ kind of queer chap to actually serve tea cold on purpose! As if that is not strange enough, does he not realize that it is winter, for heaven's sake? This American doctor must be somebody important, otherwise they'd toss him into Bedlam without so much as a second glance for ordering his tea over ice..._

I gave the drink a look of disdain which I have, to this day, not bestowed upon many a human being. Had the contents of the glass been milk, I believe I would have turned it sour.

Unfortunately, after no more than a few minutes had passed, my lack of nourishment over the last few days and the salty broth made me think twice about letting the strange beverage alone. I was going to miss a week of school because of my ankle, as it was. I did not want to miss any more because of dehydration. And so, feeling more like a soldier than I did a patient, I picked up the glass and tried a swig of the stuff. It did, indeed, taste every bit as repulsive as it looked—cold, sugarless, and bitter, with a hint of lemon to it. Nauseatingby most standards.

I downed the whole thing in under two minutes.

Having accomplished this, I placed the glass to the side and sunk back into the pillows once more. I had been awake for three hours at the most after sleeping for twenty-four. Why the devil did I feel so tired?

As my eyelids started to fall ever so slowly, I began to reflect on the incident for the first time since waking up. I played it over in my head several times, and discovered that nothing, thankfully, was foggy to me, not even those dim moments when I was just barely teetering on the edge of consciousness. It was, on the contrary, very clear, for I knew it would haunt me for some time to come.

Consequently, that Victor Trevor began to drift into my thoughts.

_While it goes without saying that he obviously didn't intend for the animal to attack me, that is no reason for the beast not to be kept on a leash. Especially if he knew the thing to be vicious. What the deuce was he doing on _my_ road, anyway? He's never been down there before..._

And so I sat pondering and rationalizing for a while, eventually beginning to kick the immature and illogical thoughts such as these.

_But if he has, he probably figured it to be as deserted as I. Also, I do know that he has at least been here once. Since he knew it wouldn't be possible to see me, he figured he might as well find some way to butter me up (hence the suit) before apologizing to me. At least, I _hope_ he was going to apologize..._

_No, strike that. I really could not care less if he came here in person tomorrow and told me where I could rot for eternity, so long as this hospital bill is taken care of by someone other than me. _

As I lay there contemplating Trevor's next visit, sleep closed in upon me as quickly as it had the previous day.

* * *

A/N: Yes. Victorians + iced tea = comedy. Am I wierd, or _what_?

Also, my OC doctor is from my hometown. So what? Work with what you're familiar with first, right?


	4. Tuesday, February 16

I was surprised to find that it was nine o'clock ad meridian when I awoke. How ever did I manage to sleep so much in those days, only six years ago?

The morning passed by with little consequence, and since I no longer felt the need to rest, I became highly susceptible to the onset of boredom, as most people would have. The only temporary relief from this was when the oh-so-annoyingly-optimistic Dr. Stevenson came waltzing into my room around ten.

"'Morning, sunshine," he chirped somewhat cautiously, but with that same unwavering grin as he tapped on my door. I must have looked as gloomy as I felt to elicit such a sarcastic remark from the good doctor.

I think I might have growled in response. I tried to think of any and all hospitals and private practices in the whole of London. If I were to search them all, how many doctors would I be able to find who had to go through regular trials of patience daily, deal with blood and gore and messes, tend to an innumerable amount of difficult people with various issues, and _still_ manage to be so unnaturally joyful?

_None_, I answered myself. So why—_why_ in the name of God did _I_ need to be stuck with the one and only?

"Oh, cheer up. Only six more days."

I don't think I've ever had more vivid thoughts of killing a person than I did after hearing this. _No one_ tells me to "cheer up" without coming out of it verbally bashed to the point of being even more dreary than I.

"I can count, thank you," I said, failing miserably at masking my bitterness with a humorous tone.

"Oh, so you'll be counting the stitches in your leg as we're pulling them out of you in a few weeks?"

I think my heart was cut loose from its valves, for it dropped into my stomach as he casually tossed the phrase.

"Stitches?"

"Oh, yes. Those teeth did your ankle something fierce."

_Perhaps this doctor is not as good-natured as I took him to be._

"But please, don't be alarmed. It's not nearly as bad as I made it out to be. You'll be quite numb to any and all pain, I assure you," he declared with a reassuring nod.

"That is... er... fine, Doctor," I stammered, being unable to inject another biting remark, for the moment.

"In any case, as long as your condition remains stable, there is really not much more we can do for your ankle. I definitely want you here, however, as the bone is still much too delicate to be put under even the slightest stress. Also, if the wound were to become infected, it would require immediate attention, and it will need to be cleaned regularly as it is. I'll keep you until until... Friday, we'll estimate, and then we'll put you in a plaster cast. You'll be on crutches for about two weeks, and will not exert this leg for around a month."

_Crutches? I'll be hobbling around campus on crutches for two weeks? This story will only circulate more once they see me dragging along on those wretched things... That Victor Trevor owes me more than a hospital bill, he owes me my self-respect!_

_Two weeks... No boxing, no fencing for a month and a half, probably more._

Trying to quench the suicidal thoughts coming into my mind and shut out this harsh reality, I told myself that this month and a half would be dedicated to the chemistry.

"How old are you, Mister Holmes?"

"Twenty," I responded mechanically, for I was fast slipping into the far-off dimension that is my thoughts. Had I really been paying attention to the conversation, I might have insisted I was three and fifty.

"There, just as I thought, barely even old enough to marry."

_Eugh_.

"Two months is barely drop in the bucket, Mister Holmes," he smiled, but quite suddenly his expression turned to one of darkness.

"... That's assuming you don't have Rabies."

It was rather foolish, looking back, but for a moment, I actually thought the man was absolutely serious. My eyes must have widened or my lips parted, for his grave expression turned to one of concerned amusement as he studied me.

"You don't have Rabies," he ventured before dissolving into a chuckle.

In a rush of heat, my face flushed scarlet with outrage.

"Not even funny, Doctor!" I nearly shouted. A passing nurse in the hallway paused to glance into our room before doubling her pace. In turn, the doctor's merry expression died before one could blink.

"Forgive me, Mister Holmes. That was a very tasteless joke. I really didn't mean to scare you half to death."

"That's not even the point, Doctor. You're just aggrav-"

I halted the hissing between my teeth and somehow regained a grip on my rising temper.

"My apologies," I muttered softly and quite reluctantly. I'm surprised he even heard me.

"None needed," he replied, "I see I've overstepped my boundaries. It wasn't my intention to offend you. Can I get you anything before I leave?"

"Ah... no. No... thank you, Doctor."

"Very well, then. Good morning," he said, striding out the door. His good humor bounced back as if I'd never even scolded him.

"'Morning."

* * *

Well, nine turned to ten, ten to eleven, and eleven to noon. A nurse brought in a tray with lunch for me, which I refused. The thought of eating sickened me. I was confined to a bed, (more like _condemned_), not to budge from it for the next week, expending no energy whatsoever. The last thing I needed was more fuel to be bottled up within me and no way to release it. I had not even a book to idle the hours away, and certainly not the cocaine bottle. Oh, what I would have done for the most minute drop of the stuff! (I wonder what the doctor would have done if he only knew.) There is and never will be anything I so passionately despise more in this world than stagnation.

Dr. Stevenson did not come back that day, and, for no particular reason, my thoughts began to drift to Mycroft. I almost half-expected to receive a letter or at least a telegram from him, before remembering that no one else in the whole school, let alone Trevor, even knew of his existence, and so obviously he had not been informed as to his brother's current predicament. I certainly had no possible way of telling him myself. Even if I had the means with which to write him, it was not as if he would actually care much or come visit me. Oh, no. I could picture him tearing open my letter and reading it, sitting behind his desk all alone in his little office down at the Diogenes, and laughing his great, fat head off. A lost cause, indeed.

By three o'clock, I was thoroughly in a state of something akin to depression. As a last means of trying to keep my mind distracted and occupied, I resorted to coming up with interesting and elaborate ways to kill myself. Among many of these was to sit up and grab the stent hanging from the ceiling with which my ankle was being elevated and try to swing just close enough to the window to hurl myself out. Not that I actually would have considered acting any of these out, but it was very amusing for a while.

Then four o'clock came, and a visitor with it. The nurse came into my room at that time to inform me of something to the effect. A few minutes later, Victor Trevor stepped hesitantly into the room. Upon seeing me for the first time and looking into my face, his cheeks immediately reddened and he averted his eyes for a moment.

"Good afternoon," I spoke first in an intentionally pleasant tone in order to _really_ make the stigma sink in. I took an evil delight in seeing how my efforts had paid off; it was only too clear how awkward and embarrassed he had become.

"Oh, yes, indeed, good afternoon," he stammered quickly, looking into my face, eyes darting away quickly, and finally settling his gaze back in my general direction.

_Oh, do make up your mind._

"How's your leg?"

_How does it look?_

"Well, it's not pleasant, but I am in no pain."

"Oh, well... that's, er... That's good to hear."

"Indeed."

It was silent for a minute or so, and during that minute, I took great pains to refrain from snickering at how uncomfortably he squirmed.

_I assure you, man, even if I am the best fighter the boxing club shall ever acquire, I am quite thoroughly incapacitated as you can see. You need not worry about my rising from this bed and beating you to a pulp._

"Well, Holmes, I do... I owe you an apology," he said softly, clearly forcing himself to lock his eyes with my own and keep them that way. He must have forgotten about his top hat, for he quickly reached up to remove it and fidgeted with the brim for a moment.

"You see, I misjudged that trail to be entirely unknown to anyone else, save for myself. I walked my dog down there every day and never saw a single soul upon it. So, figuring it was deserted, I thought nothing of letting Percy off his leash down there. When he ran ahead of me yesterday, I thought he'd gone prancing off in pursuit of a squirrel or a fox... That is, until I heard yelling. I am stupefied that he just attacked a person like that with no provocation. He's really quite a friendly pup, to be honest... But I think, by coming to the place so often and finding it unoccupied, that road became, in his mind, his territory, and so he viewed you as an intruder. Even still, there was really no way for me to truly be certain that the path was vacant, and I should have kept him on the leash, as it was."

_Really? He he had been down there every day and I didn't notice there were fresh footprints upon the path? Am I really that much less of an observer than I give myself credit for?_

"Furthermore, I will, of course, meet all of your expenses resulting from this. I really am very sorry, Holmes."

_Ah, so he does know my last name._

"Accepted, Trevor. And I, in turn, have no intention of pressing any charges against you or your noble steed, so long as you keep the thing on a tight leash in the future."

At this, I could practically see the weight lifting off his shoulders. He held my gaze unflinchingly and even managed to muster up a flicker of a smile.

"Thank you, Holmes. Would you like me to bring you anything the next time I visit?"

"My chemistry books would be a great comfort. You will find that I have four of them, and I'd like them all, if you please. I believe you must have found a key to my room?" I asked, referring to the one he must have found in my trouser pocket if he did, as the doctor said, request my clothes to have them cleaned for me.

"Yes, indeed I did. Would you like me to hold onto it for you, or do you want it back?"

"Er... Better if you keep it, Trevor. I wouldn't trust this hospital staff with anything I'd lament being rid of," I lowered my voice. It was, after all, the lesser of two evils.

"No problem, Holmes. Anything else?"

"No, I think that will do for now, Trevor, thank you."

"Right... I suppose... I suppose I'd better be going, then. And," he dropped his voice, "... And thank you, Holmes," he grinned in a relieved manner. I gave him a quick smile of my own purely out of courtesy.

"I will come by to-morrow afternoon. Goodbye, Holmes."

"Good day, Trevor."

And with that, he returned his hat to his head, gave me one last pleasant grin, and turned to stride out the door. I never would have been able to guess it when he came in, but I was beginning to see that he was a lively sort of fellow with considerable spring in his step. His visit lifted my own spirits for a time, but the minute bit of cheer he brought was already beginning to fade in time with his steps down the hallway. At least I knew I would have some means of keeping my mind occupied for the next day.

Now, how was I going to make it through the _night?_

When the nurse brought in a supper shortly thereafter, I refused it once again, this time, much to her annoyance. I did, however, request a sleeping powder to put me out of my miserable cognizance until morning. She returned some time later with a glass of water, which she poured a fine white powder into. This I downed immediately.

It took effect surprisingly quickly, for within the hour, as I remember, I was fast immersed in paralyzed, drug-induced slumber, and it was a most unpleasant experience. Not that I wasn't accustomed to long, vivid dreams which remained in my memory for quite some time, the images perfect as marks chiseled in stone. I have had many nightmares in my relatively short lifetime, but even so, only a few of these has ever reoccurred. This was one of them.

I dreamed of drowning. I was at the sandy bottom of a river, being pinned there by some unseen force. The sky above the water was almost black, save for the frequent flashes of lightning which cut through the darkness in streaks of white. I could even see the pockets of air escape from my mouth and flutter toward the surface as I hollered. But what horrified me to the point of near-mania was the realization that I was _actually_ drowning. Struggling there against the astonishingly real rushing current and flailing in a futile effort to reach the surface, I found myself unable to inhale.

I awoke abruptly and immediately took a heaving breath in through my mouth, my lungs still air-deprived and weak. I frantically surveyed the dark room surrounding me. Instinctively logical being that I am, I quickly came to the realization that I was, in fact, "back" in my hospital bed, and the whole ordeal had been nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Cursing that damned sleeping powder, (and I beg _no one's_ pardon for my crude use of language, for that is what the stuff was), I sat up and tried to take in a deep breath through my nose, but found that it just didn't work. I foolishly attempted to do so once again, accomplishing nothing but sending a thick glob of mucus directly into the back of my throat, followed by a sneeze. Feeling an absolute miserable mess, I tried to swallow, only to discover that my throat was hot, swollen, thick, and painful. Exhausted and exasperated, I sunk back into the pillow and fell back into a surrendering sleep.

At the very least, I could explain the source of my "drowning."

_

* * *

_

A/N: Six pages of writing on Microsoft Word looks like a lot less when you're reading it full-screen.


	5. Wednesday, February 17

Upon waking up the next morning, I found myself to be even more drained than I was after I'd taken the powder. I didn't have any more visions of drowning that night, but the one I did have was enough to prevent my mind from achieving anything close to sufficient rest. And so, when I came to at last, my eyes were sealed firmly shut.

After about an hour of staying like this, a vision of yellow made me finally crack open my eyes. I sat up and gazed out the window to see a pink-and-yellow tinged sky that was just coming about with dawn. It was six o'clock. No sooner had I observed this, however, I began to cough. At first, it was only one, which I managed to stifle easily enough for a minute or so, but after that, it came crashing down upon me. I was hurled forward with incredible force as my lungs heaved and my throat burned. I could barely even find time enough to inhale, which only aggravated the fit.

After a good five or six minutes of this, I became aware of someone quickly entering my peripheral vision. The nurse stood by the door, watching, as Dr. Stevenson began to pound on my back in an effort to bring the violent spasm under control before I suffocated. This was eventually accomplished after only a minute or so, and I sat hunched forward and limp, sucking in air and trying to catch my breath as the doctor continued to keep a firm and steady pressure on my back.

He placed the palm of his free hand on my forehead and tilted me back to get a better look at me, and I didn't realize until I felt his hand slipping on my skin that I was sweating profusely. I was too weak to put up much resistance. As he studied me, I observed that his face became set in a very grave but resolute expression.

"He's burning. Get me a fever powder and a glass of water," he calmly commanded the orderly, who disappeared.

"How ever did we manage to let you get so sick overnight?" he asked in a tone most sympathetic and caressing, unwinding the stethoscope from his neck. In all honesty, though, I was much too exhausted and in need of his services to be annoyed with him.

"Now, _gently_ take a deep breath," he instructed me. I obeyed as he pressed the cold instrument to my chest, causing me to shiver, and then to several spots on my back. I could not resist coughing a few times, which just prolonged what was, for me, an extremely awkward situation. I do dislike being touched, even if it is for my own health benefit.

No sooner than he had let go of me, he adjusted the pillows behind me so that I could comfortably remain sitting up, and despite my best efforts, I could not prevent my eyes from shutting against my will.

"Open," I heard him say. I lifted my eyes to see that he was holding a thermometer, to which I barely let my lips part. He slipped the glass tube into my mouth and somewhat painfully under my tongue, causing me to swallow and cough again, but his hand did not shutter. After a minute or so of this, he removed it.

"One oh-two. It's not pneumonia, but your trachea is a mess. Unless you'd been coming down with it, anyway, I don't see how you could have gotten this ill so quickly."

I didn't know whether he was expecting a reply from me, and I truthfully did not care.

"Anyway, you picked a good place to do it."

_So you say._

"Ah, there we are," he said as the nurse came in and passed him the glass of foggy liquid. He handed it over to me, and I eyed it cautiously before downing it like a tonic. It was a frigid, foul-tasting liquid which reminded me vaguely of vinegar mixed with pitch tar.

"Are you feeling hot or cold?" He asked me, taking the glass.

"I'm boiling," I replied, realizing the fact for the first time.

"Good. Get him some hot tea," he instructed the orderly, who left us once again.

"We can make you more comfortable a little bit later, but for now, I'd like you to sweat out some of that fever of yours. Hmm... I'm wondering whether or not I should give you a sleeping substance, as well?"

"_No_," I tried to raise the volume of my voice to sound as firm and declarative as I possibly could, but the sound cracked in my swollen and stinging throat, reducing it to nothing more than a hoarse, drawn-out whisper. I felt a sneeze coming on, so I pinched my nose to hopefully minimize the mess.

"I don't want to see you doing that again," he chided, pointing at me. "You can rupture an artery or blow out an eardrum like that."

"Is that another one of your sick jokes, Stevenson?" I mumbled absently to myself.

"No," he pointedly assured me with a hint of amusement. I darkened with embarrassment after I realized he'd heard me.

The doctor fussed over me a while longer, and after finishing the soothing, decalescent tea, I finally fell back into a peaceful, relaxing sleep.

* * *

I didn't stir until half past nine. The doctor came in once again to check on me some time later.

"How are you feeling this morning, Mister Holmes?"

"The same," I replied, a bit more healthy energy in my voice than three hours before. It still sounded oddly due to my terrible congestion, however.

"I thought so. Now, while I have good light, I want you to lift your head back and open your mouth."

I complied, tilting my chin up a little. The doctor stood at my side, the upper half of his body looming over me and his face only about a foot from mine. From the way he stared, it appeared as though he was thoroughly scrutinizing every tooth in my mouth, and it was a most uncomfortable feeling.

"As I suspected, an infection of the throat," he said, finishing up his examination and drawing away from me.

"No doubt it's painful. Does it feel hot?"

"Yes."

"Iced tea, then," he nodded satisfactorily.

Hearing the stuff called by its "proper" name, I almost (_almost_) smirked at what a contradiction the very phrase was. (In fact, those two words should probably not be used in the same sentence.)

"Is _that_ what you call it?"

"Yes, and it's very good for you. No sugar or fattening milk, just pure tea and lemon. Do you know, I've made several studies, and I've found that every health benefit that comes from drinking tea is _lost_ as soon as milk is added? And don't even get me started on the sugar. Also, in your case, you have the added benefit of the cold numbing that festering throat of yours."

Even with that "festering throat of mine," I felt like arguing the man to kingdom come for uttering the former half of that ridiculous statement. Even if it was true, try convincing any man, woman, or child in London of the fact. Succeed there, then see how many of them are actually concerned enough to willingly to take their tea black. Prat.

Is there ever any use in arguing with a brick wall, however? No. Therefore, I exercised my very excellent self-control and cheerfully held my tongue.

"You don't say."

"My colleagues don't believe me, either. Consider the possibility, however. Especially if you're going into the chemistry field."

Only then did I wonder exactly what kind of chemical reaction could possibly be taking place when milk, a perfectly healthy substance, was combined with tea to make it loose all its medicinal properties...

_Balderdash_.

"Very well."

"And another thing—open," he continued, holding out his thermometer. I automatically obeyed like a child and waited to hear the rest of what he had to say.

"You're not to have any more visitors for a while."

"Wha? Mno," I objected so vehemently to the statement that I attempted to voice my protestations even with the glass instrument sticking under my tongue, and failing miserably. The sounds were a jumble even to my own ears.

"Just teetering between a hundred and a hundred and one. But it's an improvement, nonetheless. Now, what were you trying to tell me?"

"No, absolutely not. I am expecting but one visitor, the same fellow who was here yesterday and the day before, and it is _imperative_ that I see him," I demanded.

"And do you also intend on passing this fever to him?"

"I am sure he will be keeping his distances, Doctor, and furthermore, I do not intend on being the catalyst of London's next epidemic."

"Alright. If you insist you're up to it," he grinned, interpreting my last statement as a joke.

"But I see you get any worse to-day, then I'm afraid your friend is going to be left out in the cold."

"No friend of mine," I responded automatically. On the instant, however, I reprimanded myself for my unfortunate habit (and it is _especially_ unfortunate for one with a mind so difficult to grasp as mine) of thinking out loud.

"Oh? And yet you're so hot and heavy to see him?"

"Well, he... he has my chemistry books, Doctor," I replied, admittedly feeling like absolute scum.

"Ah," he smiled, "That explains it. Well, if you don't want to speak to him, I can always have your nurse, Lisa, bring them up to you."

"Thank you, but I really must see him."

"If you say so. Oh, and one more thing. Nurse Lisa tells me you haven't eaten a thing since you arrived on Monday."

"No, I haven't."

"Have you been feeling nauseous?"

"No."

"Then are you hungry?" He asked, looking most perplexedly at me.

"Not at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow," I replied quite casually and honestly.

"Look, if you're going to fight that fever, let alone mend a broken bone, your body needs some energy to do it with. And more importantly, do you make it a habit of regularly going three or four days without food? I remember you were famished when you first got here."

_Oh, here we go. Do I honestly feel well or even care enough to go through and explain every one of my habits (which, strange as they are by society's standards, have served me _very_ well over the years) to you? I think not._

"Not on a regular basis."

"_Do_ you?" He demanded once again in a most exasperated manner. Did he really think he could have been any more irritated than I was?

"For the love of heaven, Doctor! I have _just_ told you!"

"Then you and I conflict somewhat in our definition of 'regular basis.' Whatever it is you're doing to yourself, it's going to stop, at least while you're in here. It's quite apparent that you're at least seven or eight pounds underweight, and that's _without_ the aid of a scale!"

"_Alright_, you've made your point, Doctor!" I cried, feeling very flushed, and not from the fever. A rush of incensed heat shot up my neck and into my head, making my whole body even more scorched than it already was, which I was in no condition to handle. I felt a trickle of sweat stream from my scalp and roll down the back of my neck as my head dropped listlessly back against the pillows.

"Take it easy, now, no need to fret," he said, his tone softening instantly.

_Honestly, this man just needs a child, a wife, a _fish_ of his own to fuss over; _I_ am not a substitute._

"Let us not raise that fever any higher than it already is. I'll have some soup sent up to you immediately, and it had better be gone when I come back to check on you in a few hours."

_Or what? You'll starve me? Twist my ankle? Open all the windows?_

"Threatening the patients, are we?"

"Tough care. Crude, but effective."

"I'm sure."

"Quite. I will see you later on to-day."

"Fine. Good day, Doctor."

The nurse came in about a half an hour later with some kind of soup, and I noted with no small surprise and horror that she actually stopped to _smile_ at me before strutting back out the door. I did not return the favor, of course, and realized that she had probably asked Doctor Stevenson to drop her name to me. Disgusting.

Feeling like a child who had been scolded and ordered to finish their vegetables, I reluctantly picked up the spoon and choked down most of the soup. If there was one thing I felt the least like doing at that time, it was certainly eating. I set the bowl and the glass of tea aside on the little table within reach of the bed and reclined myself, staring at the ceiling, waiting. It was just eleven—I had five hours to wait, presumably, before my chemistry books were within my grasp and this hell would be somewhat shut away.

_I'll bet if I rub this spoon long enough on this metal bed-frame, I could sharpen it just enough to slice into my wrists..._

_

* * *

  
_

"Visitor for you, sir," the little red-headed nurse chirped, gliding into the room while Victor Trevor stepped in somewhat sheepishly behind her. She grabbed the dish and the spoon, but frowned when she saw the untouched glass of tea.

"Why don't I leave this for you," she grinned brightly at me.

"Fine," I managed to get out before a sneeze came on.

"Bless you," Trevor interjected in a somewhat amused tone as the nurse gave him a final courteous glance before leaving.

"Drink that up, you," she said playfully, pointing at me from the door-frame.

"You're sick as a dog. You need all the liquid you can get."

"Erm... of course," I eventually sputtered after fumbling around for words with embarrassment. She flashed me one last impish grin before finally going away. Women.

"Taken a liking to you, has she?" Trevor smirked, quirking an eyebrow at me.

"Apparently so, though what I have done to win her affections I cannot begin to fathom."

"She have a name?"

"I'm sure she does."

My visitor gave a hearty, pleasant laugh at my wise-crack.

"Though in all honesty, I am much more interested in those books you are lugging than our ginger-haired nurse. You may set those down on the table, here. Ah, thank you kindly, Trevor. I really do not know what I would end up doing if I had not a book to pass the hours."

Upon reflection, I did blather on rather embarrassingly in my joy over having some means with which I could cling to my sanity in that place. Admittedly, though, my sheer delight at seeing another human face besides an annoying doctor and an insolent nurse was getting the better of me, as well.

"You look horrible, Holmes!"

"Thank you."

"No, I mean... You weren't like this when I saw you only yesterday!"

"An infection of the throat, the doctor says. I was apt to catch it, regardless."

"Good heavens," he lowered his glance and shook his head.

_If I didn't know better, I'd say he looks right guilty._

"I said I was coming down with it anyway, Trevor. You needn't feel responsible for it."

I blatantly stated the obvious fact, confused over why he should feel so badly over a matter in which he had no fault.

"I know you're right, Holmes, but you must be absolutely miserable."

"Again, it is not pleasant, but I shall fare a lot better now that I have these to keep me occupied, throat infection or no."

"Well... if you say so. How's your doctor?"

"He is... fine."

"Is he?"

"Oh, do not misunderstand me, Trevor, I am in excellent care. It is just that... well, he is a rather talkative fellow. I should not complain."

"I sympathize, believe it or not. He is acquainted with my father, so this is not the first time I've met him. Nice fellow, but sociable, indeed. I understand how those of us who are less chatty could grow weary of him."

_This chap does not strike me as being unsociable in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact._

"He is a fine physician," I offered, to keep the conversation going.

"Indeed. Graduated from Boston University, I believe."

"Oh, really?" I replied automatically, unable to restrain the tiny, satisfied smirk that was making its way across my face. Trevor nodded once, and the conversation fell into silence for a moment, before—

"What is that?" A bewildered Victor Trevor asked, pointing at the glass on the table.

"That is iced tea," I answered, as amused as he was.

"_Iced_ tea?" he repeated incredulously.

"A favorite of Doctor Stevenson's, apparently."

"Did he figure he might as well serve it like that on purpose so as not to get people complaining that their tea is cold by the time it gets to them?"

For some reason, his query, which was perfectly legitimate, sent me into a rather painful peal of laughter, which was soon followed by Trevor. It was a logically valid theory, but the humor of the notion invariably got the better or me, nonetheless.

"Considering our doctor, not unlikely in the least," I ventured, still snickering. He shook his head a few times, and finally the conversation shifted into a more permanent silence with our fading mirth.

"Well... I suppose I'll be leaving you, then," he muttered quietly.

"If I may press you further, Trevor, I request you bring me a sheet of paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink when you see me next."

"You're not pressing me at all, Holmes. I can have that for you today."

"Please, do not go out of your way for me—"

"It is no trouble, Holmes," he assured me with an amused grin at my concern.

"I'll have them sent up to you before the day's out," he continued, stepping towards the door.

"Well, thank you awfully, Trevor," I said after him, more than a little daunted at how important he found it that my every little whim be satisfied as soon as possible.

"You're quite welcome, Holmes. Good day," he nodded, going out.

"Good day."

_Good Lord! Surely it cannot already be 4:34!_

I was fairly surprised at the fact that our little chat had whittled away more than half of the hour, but even more so by the time 5:10 came along. I had my nose buried in _On Atomic Weight and Avogadro's Principle_ when I heard the slightest of taps on my door-frame. Upon looking up, I was stunned to see a lad of but eight or nine standing just inside my room.

"Yes?" I inquired, knotting my brows.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am he."

"These are for you, sir," the boy said, stepping in. I saw that he held two rolled-up sheets of paper, a corked jar of ink, and a pen. Now I recognized him as the delivery boy from one of the little stores on Wentworth Street.

"Oh... thank-you, lad. I'll take those— _Do not_ try that look on me, I know you have already been paid in full and tipped. Now, run along!"

The little rascal scurried out and left me to wonder why Trevor insisted on spoiling me so. It took no great observer to see he had money to spare, to say the least. His attire was not flashy, but it was easy to tell this fellow shopped regularly at stores at which I could barely even dream of buying a necktie. Burlington Arcade and Saint James Street were no doubt among the usuals for him, and the silk top hat was a Lock and Co.

Even still, he really didn't need to pamper me so. Either he was just trying to show off his money, making sure I was absolutely set against filing a lawsuit, or he was just a genuinely considerate and generous person. I highly doubted the former two, but still was not quite ready to just accept the latter.

_People are not just good for the sake of being good. There has to be another logical motive..._

I puzzled for a moment, and then, at a loss for explanation, felt as though I could have smacked myself on the forehead.

_Spoiled, indeed. Why am _I_ complaining?_

I let the subject drop from my mind with no great reluctance and snapped my book shut, unrolling a sheet of paper and smoothing it out on the cover. I had it in mind to write Mycroft, though for what reason I wasn't exactly sure. He would not visit me, and any reply I received would be mocking, at the best. It was something to do, however, and my brother could use a good story to break up the monotony in the dreadfully dull life he leads and loves.

_Mycroft,_

_How goes it at the Diogenes? As you might have already guessed from my voluntary prompting to make contact with you, I am not doing so well myself. Actually, I am at Charing-Cross with a fractured ankle and a somewhat nasty throat infection. How this all came about I will detail, but let me first assure you that all of my expenses are being covered and... There was something else. Oh, God, what was it...? Oh, yes. I am going to live. _

I need not detail my (lengthy) account of the whole affair, which I am sure Mycroft did not entirely appreciate.

_So, here I've ended up in my own little room, where I shall remain for another six days, if not a few more. I am in the care of a very excellent physician from the United States, so please, do not trouble yourself fretting over my condition. The doctor says it will be crutches for two weeks after this, but I'm sure I will manage rather well. Perhaps I will see you by the end of the term, if not a little sooner. Until then, I remain very truly yours, dear brother,_

_Sherlock_

I really did not intend for the note to be as sarcastic as it was long, but one simply cannot help it when dealing with Mycroft. I knew it would amuse him to no end, biting sarcasm or no. I kept the completed letter on my lap and turned my attention back to my very excellent book before that persistent little nurse came back to disturb me once more.

"You feel up to having a bite of dinner in an hour or so?"

"No, I do not feel well enough, thank you," I lied.

"Are you sure? I can get you-"

"Look, I know you mean to be friendly, but... Can you leave? Please?"

From the jilted look she gave me, one would think I had just rejected her marriage proposal.

"I do have a terrible headache," I quickly added as some kind of pseudo-excuse. She nodded and exited without another word, much to my immediate relief.

_Now there is just the matter of getting this thing to Mycroft. And since I have no doubt in my mind it will be taken care of, all there is left to brood over is the chemistry. And the constant; six point zero two two one four one seven nine three zero times ten to the twenty-third molecules per mole, if I remember correctly... _

_

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_

A/N: Oh, look. Our chapters are starting to get a bit longer all of a sudden...


	6. Thursday, Februay 18

I awoke to find the sun shining much too brightly in my face. Between the fever and the radiant heat from that formidable star (and the only reason I knew it was a star was because of a brief conversation I had had with a classmate some weeks ago, when I had referred to it as a planet. He looked at me like I had two heads before giving me a lengthy explanation of why I was incorrect. We never spoke again.) Regardless, it was rather too warm for me to continue lying comfortably as I had, so I sat upright and took great pleasure in stretching myself for the first time in four days.

Having done this, I turned my attention to my foot for the first time since arriving there. Cautiously, I just barely made an effort to flex my toes slowly, and found to my very great relief that it caused me no pain. I knew that I had to at least make an attempt to move my ankle to assess the damage for myself, but I was a great deal more apprehensive about aggravating the area that had taken the most damage. So, taking deep, slow breaths the whole time, I moved my ankle in such small increments it took me two whole minutes to just barely budge it a half an inch. After another minute's worth of coaxing, however, a sharp pain impeded any more movement and I immediately gave up putting stress on it.

"I hope you're not trying to move that," the voice of Dr. Stevenson came from out of nowhere, breaking my concentration and giving me a slight start.

"It doesn't feel as bad as it looks," I supplied somewhat hopefully.

"If it is to mend properly, you must let the cartilage set and not disturb it, so _no_ moving it. Still running that fever, eh? Open," he said, brandishing the thermometer once again. As he held the thing under my tongue, the little nurse came in with a basin of water and a cloth, which she set on the table, and left without so much as looking at me. As it should be.

"Just under one-hundred. Hmm," he nodded.

"Well, you can breathe a little easier for now, because with your temperature this high, I'm not even going to think about pulling those stitches until you have your health back, if you ever had it in the first place. Mind you, you are _going_ to eat something after I clean this—"

"Can't you just get it over with?" I pleaded softly.

"_No_. You're at ample risk for infection with that fever of yours. Now get out of my light. Lie back and relax. This will only take a few minutes." He grabbed a low wooden stool from the corner of the room and placed it at the end of the bed, sitting down. I watched with nagging concern biting at me as he gently unraveled the long bandage from my ankle, not knowing what to expect. As he got down to the last blood-stained layer, I finally got a glimpse at the wound for the first time. The skin around the jaw-shaped puncture marks was bruised a horrible purple-blue tinge, and the seven stitches were caked in dried blood.

"You expect me to eat after seeing _this_, Doctor?"

"You'll be right as rain as soon as I clean this up and get a new bandage on it. Now, this," he began, digging into his black medical bag and pulling out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a wad of cotton, "will feel very cold, but it does not sting."

Holding the cotton to the mouth of the bottle, he tipped it and then gently dabbed the cotton onto my skin, which immediately sent an uncomfortable shiver through me. It was cold as liquid _nitrogen_, and, as far as I was concerned, Stevenson was doing everything within his power to prolong the process as much as he possibly could. My hands either balled into fists or twitched uncomfortably under my back as I tried to make it through the trying process.

Even as he did this, however, I realized something odd. As bright as my room usually was in the mornings, the sun was far too high in the sky...

"Doctor, what time is it?"

"Just going on a quarter past two."

"Good Lord! Why am I sleeping so much, Doctor?"

"It's just the fever taking its toll on your body. The more you rest, the faster it'll go."

I was about to reply when he dabbed the peroxide onto a particularly sensitive cut and winced in lieu of answering him.

"Almost done," he said, wrapping the limb tightly in a white, clean new bandage and securing it with a pin.

"Your suffering is nearly at an end, but I'm afraid I must plague you further," said he, getting up from the stool and walking over to the table where the basin of water was. He soaked the cloth, rung it out, and folded it neatly.

"Now, you are going to hate me for this, but-"

"_Oh!_"

I gave a startled cry as he unexpectedly placed the ice-cold linen on my forehead. I would not have reacted so badly had I not ceased to pay attention to his chatter, but he pushed me back down as I started to bolt upright from pure reflex of the shock.

"Now, now, you're okay."

"That is freezing, Doctor! Why, that little—"

I halted just in time to prevent myself from hissing through my teeth the profanities that were coming to mind. Obviously that little... _wench_ had done this on purpose.

"Did you have something to say about my niece, Mister Holmes?" He asked coolly.

I froze (no pun intended.)

"The nurse...? Of course not! How should I find reason to speak ill of her?" I sputtered quickly, actually thanking God for that ice-cold linen pressed against me, for he would think my shivering was from the cold. There was no doubt in my mind that this man would hurt me if I hadn't closed my mouth just milliseconds before it was too late...

"How, indeed. Poor Lisa is not to blame for your plight. I specifically instructed her to make sure the water was frigid. You might be hating me for it now, but it will lower your core temperature for the next few hours and make the sweltering of the fever a bit more bearable."

"Of course. Now can you please remove it?"

"Oh, hush up. I've had five year-olds that have taken this better than you."

"I'll bet you told them they'd shrivel up like prunes and die unless they let you cool them down, am I right?"

"One more word and I'm going to dump this entire basin on you."

And I had no reason not to believe he would do it, so I lay there and shut up while my head throbbed under the ice-cold cloth.

"...But yes," Stevenson said after a moment of silence. I don't know quite what was so amusing about this admittance, either the mental image of Stevenson scaring the living daylights out of some poor child or the very idea that someone even _would_ do such a thing to treat a patient, but despite my best efforts and honest desire not to give him the satisfaction of laughing, I couldn't contain a smile.

"That is very bad medicine, Stevenson. I wouldn't tell that to people if I were you—"

"Alright, that's it!" He said, removing the cloth and picking up the basin.

"_Don't you dare, Doctor!_" I quite literally yelled as he held the bucket over me.

"What's going on _here_?"

A completely new voice entered the room. Both the doctor and I turned on the instant to see Victor Trevor standing right at the foot of the bed.

"Well, if that isn't Victor Trevor!" Stevenson said cordially, setting the basin back down on the table and walking over to Trevor.

"How do you do, lad? It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Indeed it has, almost three years, I believe," Trevor replied, gripping the doctor's outstretched hand.

"Come to visit this featherhead, have you?" He grinned, motioning to me.

"Indeed, though what he's done to earn the wrath of Stevenson escapes me," he replied jokingly.

"Ah, no wrath this time, lad, all in good fun. Well, I suppose I'll leave you now, but it was good seeing you again, Victor. You have my permission to smack him if he doesn't behave."

"Alright," Trevor replied, trying to cease his snickering for my sake, "Nice to see you too, sir. Good day."

Stevenson left and Trevor succeeded in bringing the laughter under control, but an amused smile still lingered on his face.

"What just happened in here, Holmes?"

"I think you already know," I replied sourly, for my good humor that had lasted all of three seconds was thoroughly and utterly squashed.

"Well, yes. But... for the record, you know he wouldn't have actually done it."

"Oh, I'm inclined to think otherwise, Trevor."

"No, really, I know him far too well. He'd tip the bowl just enough to convince you he was going to dump the whole thing on you only to pull it back and taunt you for being so gull... for being so gullible—"

"I really do not find this funny at all, Trevor!"

Although it was easy to tell he though otherwise, despite that he was trying once again to halt his laughter.

"I can tell. I'm sorry," he said finally knocking it off.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"A bit, although the fever persists along with the good doctor's antics."

"Oh, pay him no mind. He's only trying to take your mind off things a bit."

"Trevor, I am _not_ seven years old."

"Well, Holmes, if you'll pardon my saying so, it doesn't even take a monkey to tell that you're exceptionally bored."

"How did you guess?" I spat sarcastically, before realizing he had just dropped a potential outlet right into my lap...

"Well, since you brought it up, let us see what I can make of you, then. For starters, you've recently been around a woman wearing far too much perfume."

"That is correct," Trevor replied, smirking suggestively and quirking an eyebrow, which led me to my next conclusion.

"This woman is not a relative."

"Indeed," he grinned. Needless to say, I decided at that point to leave that particular subject alone...

"Ah, I have it. Today is a professional day; there are no classes. So you took the lady to the House of Red Leaves for breakfast. They're finally getting the place fixed up, I see."

Trevor's eyes widened just for a moment, for he narrowed them quickly and folded his arms across his chest.

"Alright, now how did you know that?"

"Ah! You had a poached egg. If you'll notice, you got some yolk on your sleeve when you rested your right forearm on the table."

Trevor looked down quickly.

"Eugh. So I do. And how did you know they're renovating the place?"

"To be more precise, they hired some inexpensive and very careless painters."

"Well... the place _was_ painted... Wait a minute, Holmes! If I hadn't confirmed your hypothesis, how would you have even known we ate at the House of Red Leaves in the first place? Why not at any other restaurant in London?"

"Aside from the fact that it's the only place that serves a decent meal for at least eight blocks, there is also the question of the paint. Take off your hat, Trevor."

Trevor shot me a questioning glance before slowly reaching up to remove his top hat.

"Turn it over."

He did as I instructed. On either sides of the inner brim, there were two smudged lines of pale yellow paint.

"My hat! But how did you—? I've been walking around like this all day!?"

"You see? The painters had obviously not bothered to alert the owners that the paint was still wet. So when you hung your hat from one of the hooks on the wall, the paint transferred onto it. And that, as you well know, is the color of the place to begin with."

There was a brief pause during which Trevor looked at me as if I'd grown a second head before finally giving an amused snicker.

"Good Lord, Holmes, are you hiding a crystal ball underneath that bed?"

"Really, Trevor, you speak as though I'd just moved something without touching it. It is simply a matter of observing and drawing a logical conclusion. "

"Where did you learn to think like that?"

"My blushes, Trevor, I am self-taught. A mere hobby of mine, nothing more."

"Holmes. Hunting, drawing, fishing. _Those_ are hobbies."

"And why is mine not legitimate? Because _you've_ never heard of it?"

"Me and the rest of the planet."

"Nonsense. Have I missed anything of interest in the last few days?"

"Well," Trevor paused to think, slightly taken off-guard by my abrupt change of the subject.

"Nothing of note in Psychology. Er... You take anatomy, do you not? Well, in that case, nothing, unless you're interested in the structure of the lymph nodes. Chemistry... I'm sorry to say Professor Eddington gave a rather fascinating lecture on the properties of this new element gallium—"

"And I missed it!" I fairly wailed.

"You would have been in the front row answering every question, as usual," he mumbled.

"Anything else of note?"

"Not that I can think of, no."

"Not surprising."

"You look tired, Holmes."

"I don't know how I possibly could be. All I've been doing for the past four days is talking and sleeping."

"And eating, I hope."

"Ugh."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' "

"Easy for you to smile, Trevor. You haven't been living on hospital food."

"I'll make it up to you, Holmes. We'll have lunch at the House of Red Leaves sometime after you're out of here. Assuming the paint is dry by then, of course."

"It's a deal," I groggily replied, realizing that I was in fact and very much against my will, tired.

"Would you like me to take that for you?"

I opened my eyes to find Trevor motioning to the letter that lay on top of the chemistry textbook next to my bed.

"Yes, if you please. That's to a Mister Mycroft Holmes, at the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall."

"Certainly. Er... if you'll forgive my curiosity, would that be your father?"

"Hm? Oh, no. Brother."

"Ah. Well, guess I'm off, then."

"Kind of you to come, Trevor. And thank you. Good day."

Trevor had reached the door and turned around to face me once more with a not entirely serious face.

"Good day, featherhead."

And with that, he fairly bolted from the door and down the hall. I could hear him laughing as he went out, and much to my own chagrin, I shortly followed the suit and indulged in his silliness.

…That is, until I realized something that slowly but steadily wiped the smile off my face.

_Did I just agree to have lunch with Victor Trevor?_

_

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_A/N: Reviews are appreciated, people.


	7. Friday, February 19

A/N: There are a few certain... "events" in this chapter that are based on real-life occurrences. See if you can figure out which ones they are ;)

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"G_o-o_d morning!"

That was the first thing I heard. Honestly, could this man not even wait for me to open my eyes to commence pestering me?

I dragged my lids open with intentional slothfulness, meeting the doctor's merry countenance with no less than a dead-on glare that could have melted steel. Steel, however, was sawdust as compared to the strength of his abnormally joyful demeanor.

"Oh, stop it. What am I: a doctor or an ogre?"

"Given the choice between the two of you..." I purposely trailed off, to which Stevenson only laughed.

"Claptrap. And I though you told me you _weren't_ a friend of Victor Trevor?"

"I wasn't even _acquainted_ with him until the start of this whole detestable business, thank you very much!" I retorted as Stevenson gave me a scrutinizing look before rather abruptly pressing a palm to my forehead before I could continue.

"Why so testy this morning? Look, your fever's even broken!"

"Indeed?"

"Why, yes. So now we can get you on some real food."

"Eugh, why the obsession with feeding me to the point of bursting, doctor?"

"I'm sure most medical circles would refer to what you denote by 'bursting' as _normal_."

"Right after they acclaim your groundbreaking thesis of the iced tea?"

"Exactly," he promptly responded, which startled me not a little until I realized he was joking. Again.

The entering click of a woman's footsteps brought my attention to the door, and the nurse peered in from around the fame.

"You have a visitor, sir," she said tersely, walking away without even making eye contact.

"Awfully early for Victor to be by, isn't it?" Stevenson asked, confused.

_Not that it's any of your business._

"Indeed," I agreed. It was only half past ten, after all.

The sound of the nearing steps told a different story, however. It was sluggish and not very resounding, much unlike Trevor's quick, sharp stride. The question was solved, though, when none other than brother Mycroft proceeded to tap on my door frame and stick his portly head in.

"Good day, sir," he greeted the doctor in his low, husky but well-mannered voice.

"And good morning to you as well. I'm sure you will excuse me, I was just leaving."

"Of course," Mycroft replied as the doctor threw us each a courteous nod and departed.

"_That_ was the 'very excellent physician from the United States?'" was his first snobbish, sneering question.

"Indeed, though one must first be in _need_ of a physician in order to equitably judge, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, do stop it with the proverbs, Sherlock. And where's this throat infection you were so long-windedly telling me of?"

"Gone by now, thank heaven. Doctor Stevenson tells me the fever only broke just this morning."

"Oh, thank the heavens, indeed!" he cooed satirically.

"For the absolutely poisonous tone of that letter you sent had me thinking you to be at death's door. I really must thank you for that _epic_ memo, by the way. I hadn't laughed so hard in approximately eighteen months. Certainly one worth archiving, that."

_And to think I brought this on myself._

"To what do I owe the _pleasure _of the visit then, brother?"

"This Victor Trevor fellow you spoke of... is he a well-to-do man?"

"Yes."

"Mild-mannered, of a moderate temperament?"

"I would say so," I responded, failing to comprehend the point he was driving at.

"Intelligent?"

"Perhaps. Why all these irrelevant questions?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, would I be asking you anything at all were it not relevant? Anyway, I was saying that I have a fellow down on Wells Street who is willing to take care of this business at a reasonable price."

Now I was thoroughly confused.

"_What?_ Mycroft, what ever are you on about?"

"A lawyer, Sherlock! Has five days in a hospital really made you so dense?"

"I certainly do _not_ need a lawyer! And even if I did, I am not so 'dense' as to get one through you!"

"Then just how exactly do you plan to go about filing a proper lawsuit?"

"Haven't you already figured it out, Mycroft? I'm not suing."

His jaw went slack for a moment.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"And just why _not_?" he bellowed furiously, face flushing red with ire. It made him look rather like a watermelon, in all honesty.

"You read my letter, did you not? How could I have possibly made it more clear that the whole event was nothing more than an accident!"

"Oh, it was an _accident_ that the mongrel was not tied on a leash? And only through pure _coincidence_ that it viciously attacked you?"

"Neither of us knew the other was even there!"

"What difference does it make!"

"Mycroft. I. Am not. Suing. And that is final."

"Then why the devil did you even write me to begin with!?"

I shrugged.

"Does it _look_ like there's much to do here?"

Mycroft turned away with a throaty, rasping growl that greatly reminded me of the hound itself.

"Brother mine," I chuckled, "you really must learn to control that temper of yours if you expect anyone to take you seriously. You are so _funny_ when you're angry."

With that, Mycroft bounded back around (well, as quickly as a hippopotamus _can_ move) and grabbed the rope to the stent on which my ankle was elevated, glaring menacingly at me.

"Utter one more word and you will not walk for a year."

"Splendid. I'll save the lawyer 'till then. Your office down at the Diogenes will do _very_ nicely as my personal laboratory."

With that, his grimacing glare melted into a haughty sneer as he turned on his heel and prepared to withdraw.

"Well, at least I am once again taller than you."

"For now. And brother mine!" I called after him as he stepped out, causing him to about-face once more.

"I appreciate your concern."

With one last pompous "h'rmph" and accompanying snub, he pivoted and finally left.

* * *

C6H5N2 + 3KOH + _____ — C6H5 + 3KCl + 3H2O

_One part aniline combined with three parts potassium hydroxide and one part of the unknown substance yields one part phenylisocyanide, three parts potassium chloride, and three parts water._

_The missing reactant must have three units of chlorine to balance the product, which leaves only one part hydrogen and one carb—_

"Hello, Holmes."

I started.

"Oh... Hello, Trevor."

_What time is it?_

It was already ten minutes after five, but I really had no recollection or sense of the passing time. It was beginning to grow dark out, and I was taken aback to find that the usual luncheon of stew and tea was sitting on my table.

_Who put _that_ there, and when?_

"Did I interrupt you?"

"Well... it's of no consequence. Er... Won't you sit down?"

It was an embarrassingly stupid thing to say, but I had nothing else with which to somewhat appease him for being so completely oblivious to his presence. I had been very much engaged with my chemistry books once again, going through them and simply placing a finger over one reactant in any chemical equation I could find in order to balance it myself. Knowing Trevor as little as I did then, I figured he could have been standing there a good three or four minutes waiting for me to notice him.

"Thank you," he replied, dragging the stool over the few feet from the end of the bed and sitting. The aged piece of furniture so conveniently picked a wonderful time to give a loud crack as he sat.

"Comfortable?" I could not help but ask sardonically as he looked down at the stool with some concern.

"It's softer than the dormitory beds."

That did much to dissolve the awkwardness and give us something to snicker over.

"And oddly enough, I'm pleased to inform you that it finally happened," he declared with a satisfied smirk.

"What finally happened?"

"Professor Cavendish's chair. It broke right in the middle of class."

"No!"

Professor Cavendish was one of the mathematics instructors. The man really was unfortunate, for if he had been four or five inches taller than he was, he might have gotten away with a having physique somewhat resembling that of Mycroft—hefty, but not bloated and round. However, this was not the case, for he in fact had a physique resembling something more of a large punch bowl.

Bearing this in mind, it would only make sense that the powers at the university would provide the man with a chair that was in at least somewhat better shape than the very stool that Trevor sat upon, but once again, this was not the case. And every time he sat down, every last one of us, the students, would practically hold our breaths as the thing wobbled and creaked beneath him. A few jokers even had a pool going on when it was finally going to give out.

But I'm rambling. Trevor sat there snickering as my mouth hung open briefly before joining him shortly thereafter.

"Good God," I choked, "what happened?"

"There was just a _snap_ as soon as he hit the chair... and the whole _back_ came off."

"So the man fell backwards?" I gaped, picturing the scene all too clearly.

"He _rolled_!"

This time, I was as bad as Trevor, (if not worse), who was on the brink of crowing, at least until Stevenson himself walked by. He didn't come in, but merely paused and shot me a rather queer look before shaking his head dismissively and moving on. Trevor didn't even notice.

"Ah," he said as we began to regain control of ourselves after such an outburst.

"Poor Mister threes-" He halted abruptly.

"What did you say?"

"Well," he began in a hushed manner, flushing to the roots of his blonde hair and glancing around before continuing.

"It's... well, I suppose you could call it an inside joke. You see, shortly after his introduction to Euclidian geometry, I started calling him," another snicker, "I started calling him... Mister three-sixty."

If I had not the excellent self-control that I did, (even if I had not chosen to _use_ it before) I surely would have burst into another fit of laughter before my gentlemanly temperance could come back and kick me. As it was, we only snickered for a minute or so.

"Infantile, I know," Trevor admitted.

"Perhaps, but not an inaccurate analogy."

"You certainly picked a good week to miss classes, Holmes," he chuckled. Not half a second later, however, he practically choked, flushing crimson this time instead of scarlet.

"_I_ didn't pick it at all, Trevor. I believe I rather have more of you to thank for that."

"I-I know, Holmes, I mean I-I-I'm sorry. I realize how that sounded," he sputtered so quickly I'm surprised I even understood him.

"Then perhaps it might do you some g-g-g-_good_ to _think_ before you s-s-s-_speak_," I retorted mockingly, though I vow it was only in jest. Trevor, however, evidently took my icy stare as a sign that I spoke with the utmost seriousness, and his mouth hung slightly agape as he fumbled and failed to try and find words and averted his eyes completely. I fully admit without reluctance or shame that it was rather difficult for me not to burst out laughing for the thousandth time that night as Trevor floundered, though I do grant that just the slightest pang of guilt poked at me as Trevor moved to get up from the chair and presumably leave.

"Hold on a moment!"

He finally looked at me once again.

"You _do_ know that I was only joking, Trevor?"

His eyes widened as his lips ceased their trembling.

"...Just now?"

"My, my, you are a basket case, Trevor. What would Doctor Stevenson say?"

"He would probably remind me that he gave me his full authority to strike you; and that chemistry book which you hold so conveniently looks right heavy, I might add. Or better yet, where's that basin?"

"Would you hit an invalid?" I asked half-seriously.

"Having just forced the foremost aggressor of the boxing club to willfully call himself a cripple, I personally don't see the need."

"I would ask you to withdraw that statement, but seeing as where I won't be stepping anywhere near the ring for the next two months, I'm afraid it would be rather ineffectual."

"They say the pen is mightier than the sword."

"Nay, nay, I am also a rather dexterous fencer, if I do say so myself."

"Tell you what. In two months, we'll meet in the ring, us two, and _you_ bring your sword, but _I'll_ write a note to everyone else telling them to bring _their_ swords."

"Be my guest, Trevor! Your scheme is delightful. But I'm afraid the gymnasium will be rather a mess by the time I get to you."

"You cannot possibly be so cheeky, Holmes," he said with an amused snicker.

"Arrogance has nothing to do with it, Trevor. I speak the truth without regard to egotism. But your rather imaginative scenario is really quite refreshing to picture."

"What an odd conversation this is we're having, Holmes. I mean, _really_."

"We _could_ have gone on pretending it was commonplace if you hadn't said something."

"Just as long as _one_ of us is normal enough to realize it," he muttered quietly, and it was such a dramatic change from his zany, ribald tomfoolery that I quickly opted to try and reflect on what I had said to offend him so.

"What ever do you mean?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing... nothing, Holmes." He replied, turning his wandering gaze back in my direction. It was only then that I realized that when he had said 'as long as _one_ of us is normal,' he had been excluding _himself _from that category, and not I. And truth be told, it startled me not a little.

"Are you quite well, Trevor?"

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"Ah, no reason," I insisted, marveling at how quickly he had reverted himself to a perfectly normal and content countenance.

"I had that letter sent to your brother, by the way."

"Ah, yes, I know. Thank you, Trev... Trevor, how the _deuce _did you know Mycroft was my brother?"

"You told me, Holmes."

"_What?_"

"You told me the letter was to a Mister Mycroft Holmes. I," he colored, "...I... well, rather pryingly, inquired as to whether the relation was your father. You told me he was your brother."

_What? He knew about Mycroft? I had _told_ him about Mycroft?_

It is not that I terribly minded the fact that he inquired as to the recipient of the letter. Had it been any other man, of course, but Trevor did not grate upon my nerves. If I had been in my right mind, I _know_ I simply would have politely discounted his query and said no more.

But no, I had actually gone on to _tell_ him that I had a brother?

"Trevor, I must be losing my mind. I have absolutely no recollection of—"

"No need to be so embarrassed, Holmes. Do you remember that you were practically unconscious by the time I left the room?"

"I was tired, I remember that. Between the fever and whatever medicine they have me on... yes, I remember now. I was quite gone before I even saw you out the door. I have never slept so much in my _life_," I added with a hint of disgust.

"It'll probably do you some good."

"Why does everybody seem to think I purposely deprave myself of everything and anything I can for the pure mirth of it? If I _need_ to sleep, _then_ I'll sleep! Is it really that difficult to comprehend?"

"N-n-no, Holmes, of course not."

He was stuttering again, a surefire sign I'd made him nervous. Again.

_In all seriousness man,_ I could not help but berate myself, _once is to be expected. Twice is unfortunate, but three times won't do. I will not stand for nearly scaring the man out of the room again._

"Did I just snap at you, Trevor? My apologies. It is just that you seem to share the same opinion of my habits as the good doctor so clearly does."

"I would not have commented on the matter had your appearance had not improved so drastically from the last two nights."

_Pardon _me_? Honestly, I might not be the best-looking chap in London, but I am far and away not the worst! And I doubt a few winks of sleep of all things has done anything to improve that._

"I wish I could say the same for my leg."

"Have you moved it at _all_?"

"Only once, barely. Doctor Stevenson was not pleased."

"What did he threaten you with that time?"

"He didn't need to. The fact that I might potentially condemn myself to another day or two in _here_ was enough to deter me."

"You mean you wouldn't enjoy an extra day of the good doctor's company?" he smirked.

"I accede that he is a kindly fellow, Trevor, especially for a man holding such a profession that requires him to see all kinds of gore and horrors, but he is happy _all the time_. I simply do not understand it... What?"

The question was asked upon the realization that my analysis of the doctor was causing Trevor to chuckle more and more as I went on.

"You don't _have_ to understand it, Holmes. He's a cheery fellow by nature, and that is all. What's not to understand?"

"People are not just _happy_ because they can be, and that is a fact. I cannot begin to describe to you how perfectly I can just picture this man whistling while in the process of amputating a man's arm."

Trevor sprung upright in the chair and began to motion as if holding something in place and slicing into it with a saw.

"Well, you've officially become left-handed," he smiled merrily in an impressively well-enacted American accent, "but at least you can tell people that you lost it while pulling two children out of a burning building."

The roars of laughter that followed were enough to draw the attention of a passing nurse, who ducked her head in for a moment and raised a finger to her lips before departing as quickly as she had arrived.

"Miserable old fishwife," Trevor muttered.

"Will you stop!" I fairly yelled, trying desperately to quell the new wave of amusement that came over me with his last statement.

"Honestly, Trevor, did you come here to-night with the sole intention of entertaining me?"

"No, but you look like you could use it, anyway, Holmes."

"Oh, so now I'm a gloomy misanthrope who doesn't get enough sleep."

"An _anorexic_ misanthrope who doesn't get enough sleep!" an intruding response rang from the hall as Stevenson passed by again and evidently could hear our discussion very clearly.

"Idiot," I hissed when I was sure he was gone.

"Have you read Charles Lasgue's book?" *

"_L'anorexie Hysterique_, indeed. Though if you ask me, this 'condition' is nothing more than another one of the many unfounded and irrational paranoid sensitivities of women."

"Your compassion is touching."

"Well it _is_ true."

"Excuse me, sir."

Both Trevor and I looked up in unison to find the nurse standing just inside the doorway.

"Yes?" Trevor replied, for apparently she had been addressing him.

"It is six-thirty. Visiting hours are over."

As if on cue, Trevor and I reflexively looked back at each other, stunned, before our eyes darted to the clock. Surely enough, it was half past six.

_Impossible!_

"Well... so it is," Trevor mumbled, rising from the chair.

"I truly did not realize I kept you for well over an hour, Holmes," he stated with some embarrassment.

"Kept me from _what_?"

"Well... good point. But really, Holmes, if I-"

"Honestly, Trevor, where would you get the notion into your head that you were unwanted here?"

It was the closest I ever came to truly thanking him.

"Well, Holmes, I..." he trailed of nervously for a moment, but my last statement had clearly and for an unknown reason had some sort of softening effect on him, making me grow the slightest bit uneasy.

"I had just hoped I hadn't been pressing on your nerves any."

"Not at all, Trevor, really," I tried to wave him off with a bored, uninterested air.

"Well, in any case, I will see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Trevor."

"Good night, Holmes and... Good evening, madam."

The latter was, of course, directed to the nurse with an accompanying grin and tip of the hat. I rolled my eyes at the scene as the blushing nurse showed Trevor out of the room, who looked back at me once more with a smirk and a sly smile and one eyebrow devilishly quirked.

"Rake," I muttered as he disappeared, but I made certain he heard me. The need to go chasing around every female one lays eyes on is certainly a shameful masculine weakness.

Victor Trevor. He might have had more money than he knew what to do with, but he was _no_ gentleman!

* * *

Because we all know that Holmes is man-orexic XD

And we've even got a bit of Mycroft thrown in there, too.

Interesting fact: the first case of anorexia nervosa was documented in 1873 by the aforementioned psychologist Charles Lasgue in his book _L'anorexie Hysterique._ I'd love to provide a functioning link to the article I found this on, but FF feels the need to butcher links, unfortunately, and will not let subscript numbers get by, either, so my chemical equation looks rather messy. Here is a rather mind-boggling quote from the article:

"... This history of anorexia reaches into Victorian times. Girls felt cultural pressure to be thin just as they do now in the 21st century. During the Victorian era, mothers and daughters avoided food to avoid giving off the impression that their physical appetite linked to their appetite for sex. During those times, it was commonly thought that should a woman eat more, she in turn had a greater sexual appetite."

If you want to read the rest of it, delete the spaces in this link:

http:// www. /anorexia/ history of anorexia. Htm


	8. Saturday, February 20

The next day was something of a fluke in the road to recovery I had finally thought myself to be on since breaking out of that hellish fever. I hardly slept at all that night, save for perhaps two hours or so in the small hours of the morning. I clearly remember being alert, albeit exhausted and groggy, at three o'clock, and no further rest came after that. I partly blamed Trevor's visit for my inability to succumb, for my jovial reaction to his kooky sense of humor had stirred up quite an amount of adrenaline within me, but I berated myself, as well, not only for bringing on my present dilemma, but for openly putting on such a display, as well.

_I still cannot believe someone actually needed to tell us to _quiet down_, like little children! _

_Mister Three-Sixty, indeed._

And so I lay there fuming for a while, stewing in my own juices as I chewed over the peculiar events of the evening in my mind. Truly, I _was_ irritated at Trevor for a while. What an unusual personality he had! (When I say "unusual," it is not uncommon that I use it in a positive light.) Now _he_ was a puzzle I could never solve.

This called to mind something he had said earlier on in the evening—"at least _one_ of us is normal." I had wondered what the deuce he meant by that. I have already stated that I am not the ideal embodiment of normality, and it usually does not take the average fellow long to see that.

_So what on earth is wrong with Victor Trevor that he thought he had somehow been alarming _me_? True, his choice of conversation had been unconventional, but it was anything but trite and boring, at least._

_And he had become so solemn when he said it, yet insisted he was perfectly fine upon my inquiry and carried on as if nothing had happened. I _know_ what that was—it was simply a mistake. He had let the facade slip, if only for a second, but it was a slip, nonetheless. The question is why he needs one in the first place? He has everything a man could need in the palm of his hand—money, clout, an education, and certainly plenty more "lady friends" than are good for him..._

I did not break out of my hypnotic train of thought until a faint beam of yellow light snapped me back to attention. At least the place would start coming alive within the next few hours. As it happened, the doctor came at a quarter past seven to see me, which was highly unusual considering our normal schedule.

"You're awake," he greeted me with no mild surprise before stepping in.

"A stunning observation, Doctor," I retorted groggily and before I thought about what I was saying.

"Do you feel ill?"

"No," I replied, not as much surprised as I was grateful that he had completely missed my impertinence.

"Had a rough night, then?"

"It was not a restful one."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You should have asked the nurse for a soporific."

"I did not really think it was worth it."

By "worth it," I meant I would not risk receiving a sedative spiked with arsenic for the sake of a good night's sleep.

"Well, you really should get some sleep, but I don't know that it'll do much good to give you one now. You'll be out for the day and have another night like the last one."

"I don't need one, thank you."

"In any case, this will give me one less thing to do later on in the morning. I'm always by this early, you're just never awake."

"Yes, terribly inconvenient when one is trying to conduct an examination, I should imagine."

"On second thought, you probably wouldn't sass so much, but even then I'll bet it isn't a guarantee."

I folded my arms across my chest.

"You were _saying_, Doctor?"

"Oh, yes. Well, it looks like to-morrow's going to be the big day."

"Thank the Lord."

_Especially considering you told me I'd be out of here yesterday._

"And you're to put _no_ strain on this foot whatsoever. Absolutely none."

"What? But Doctor, I thought you told me I would be on crutches when I get out of here!"

"And you will be, but you're not to do anything _stupid_, Mister Holmes, like attempting to push your recovery, because I warn you, you will find yourself right back in here in a considerable amount of pain."

"Doctor, I assure you I would not risk it for the _world_."

"You'll also be glad to hear that I want you to get in some minimal exercise every day, but do not aggravate the injury if it is sore. Walking to and from your quarters and between classes should be sufficient. And for God's sake, Mister Holmes, you're to put on some _weight_."

"Does that last item go with your official treatment plan or is it just a personal sentiment?"

"I'm telling you as your doctor."

"Very well, then."

_Like the devil I will._

"We'll have that foot of yours in a cast before the day's out. The plaster will take forty-eight hours to completely harden, but it will be solid enough by to-morrow. We'll also get you the crutches."

"Very good. Er, doctor... Is there any chance at all that I might possibly be able to walk today?"

He sighed.

"I doubt it."

"Even if it's just a few steps?" I half-pleaded.

"I wouldn't count on it, Mister Holmes, but we'll see what happens. You never know."

Now it was my turn to let out a rather heavy sigh of my own. Stevenson only laughed.

"I have faith in you, Mister Holmes. I'm sure you'll live to see another day. I could give you every pill in the world for pain, but alas, there is no injection against tedium."

"Yes, there is."

I could have kicked myself. Had I a knife, I'm sure I would have slashed my traitorous tongue.. I had done it _again_—spoken without thinking, and probably due to my lack of sleep. Only this time, it was potentially apt to get me into a great deal of trouble with the good doctor.

_What an idiot!_

I held my breath for what seemed like ten minutes during the short, in reality, pause in which Stevenson tried to unravel just what _exactly_ I'd meant by that. When he finally did catch on, he snickered.

"Oh, you mean _that_. Sorry, Mister Holmes, but you are certainly _not_ getting a syringe full of perfectly good morphine that could be spent on some poor soul going into surgery."

"I never asked for it!"

"No kidding. The first time you've deigned to crack a single joke and already you're offended."

I let out the breath.

_Alright, alright. He thinks I was only joking._

"... Unless you were serious," he said in his normally chipper mood, but something about this was off. Even as he was saying it, he fixed me with an icy glare that certainly did not match his tone of voice, and went against everything I had yet seen of him. It was most startling, actually.

"I have already told you that I _never_ asked for any drugs."

"I know," he chirped with a smile, and the rather hostile look he had been giving me just seconds beforehand died before I could blink.

"And somehow, I could not bring myself to believe that a such an intelligent and _eager_ young man as yourself would do something so utterly idiotic as to go polluting his body and mind with that garbage. Am I right?"

When he did not continue talking, I figured he was going to pivot at any moment of his choosing to leave. It took me a few seconds to realize that his question was not, as I had presumed, rhetorical, and that he was awaiting an answer.

"I have never touched the stuff in my life," I responded mechanically, looking right into the man's face and searching for any signs of disbelief. For one of the few times in my life, I could actually hear my heart hammering away like a drum with my skyrocketing pulse among the thick silence that prevailed in the room. I half-expected him to lean forward and tell me what a seething liar I was.

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it, Mister Holmes. Don't ever start," he smiled, his voice bordering on a whisper.

"Of course," I said more awkwardly than I would have liked to as he made his way to the door.

"Because I'm telling you, that stuff latches onto you like a parasite and will never let you go. I've seen it happen... oh, listen to me. This is a bright conversation we're having, isn't it? But at least you'll come out of here a little bit wiser for your broken ankle, which I'll plaster myself later on this morning."

And with that, he left. I sat there in something akin to a state of shock for a moment, marveling at how close my own stupidity had just brought me to almost revealing my... less-than-healthy habit to the good doctor.

_It seemed to disturb him a great deal more than he was willing to let on._

I looked guiltily down at the scarred pinpricks on my wrists. Four of them...

_How many more?_

To any other doctor, it would have been nothing more than just another item to add to my preliminary, no different than alcohol or tobacco smoke. Something about this particular doctor, however, made me wonder what exactly he'd seen the drug do to those evidently unfortunate patients.

_Why was I so reluctant to admit it? We all have our vices, cocaine just happens to be one of mine. What makes it any worse than laziness or overeating or indulging in drink? I should think it to be less harsh on the body than any of those._

_Perhaps he knew somebody... _

I shook my head. It was not uncommon for this to happen to me. I had certainly had my periods of doubt about the drug, but I invariably shut them out of my mind and let them pass. This time would not be any different.

_I have not the cocaine bottle; so I needn't worry about it now, need I?_

_

* * *

  
_

Just as the good doctor had said, my foot was plastered in a cast by noontime that day. What a queer feeling that was—having that bulging, sticky, heavy thing smeared onto me piece by piece. It was the next step towards recovery, however, and if it would get me out of that bed, then so be it.

The thing had already been on me for a good four hours or so by the time Trevor arrived, and in lieu of greeting me, he stopped dead in his tracks at the foot of the bed, fixing me with a most puzzled expression.

"Aren't they supposed to wait until you die to start doing that?" He said, pointing to my foot. Not for the first time in his company, I snorted.

"A little more of that bandaging and they could sell you over to the British Museum for a few quid. I hear there is quite a demand for mummy forgeries nowadays."

"Yes, isn't it sad? There are already two of them in the Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan."

"How do you know?"

"Never mind. The doctor tells me I am to be released tomorrow morning."

"Really? Well, finally!" he grinned.

"My sentiments exactly."

"Wonderful news, Holmes. What's the prognosis?"

"Oh, nothing severe. There is the cast, of course, and the crutches, a bit of exercise daily, and mostly just keeping this thing elevated for around two weeks. It'll be over a month before I can fully recover."

"Over a month," Trevor sighed, shaking his head, "I would surely go mad before the month were up. Actually, if our places had been reversed, I'm sure I would have gone mad already."

"Assuming you are not already there?"

"Very funny, Holmes. Though for your sake, I hope not. And by the way, I believe you actually had the audacity to call me a _rake_ before I departed last evening," he said melodramatically, feigning offense.

"You _believe_ correctly."

"They say the friend is the man who knows all about you and still likes you," he shrugged easily, the keyword "friend" and its implications having gone completely over my head at the time.

"You're just a fountain of proverbs, aren't you, Trevor?" I said somewhat flatly.

"I have a habit of acquitting words in which I have found a bit of wisdom to memory, I just have yet to acquit the names of a good three-quarters of their authors."

On that note, we both snickered for a moment before a silence set in.

"So... if you are going to need crutches for at least two weeks, I should imagine that lugging around textbooks will not be the easiest task," he said quietly, obviously trying to phrase the question with as much diplomacy as he could to spare my pride, but nothing he could have said would have lessened the blow any.

"I know," I said, letting out a heavy sigh.

"You don't have to."

"I should."

"No. It is really not necessary."

Even I knew that I was submerged up to my eyeballs in denial at this point, and the look on Trevor's face alone told me he would have none of it.

"I really think it is."

"Then I'll find somebody else! You are by no means obligated to... to..."

I trailed off. Trevor's ability to speak without uttering a word was always a trait of his which amazed me. As he fixed me with his hallmark only-just-visible one-sided smirk and his eyebrows raised as high as they could go, I could just hear with all too much clarity just exactly what he meant to say.

_Oh, you will, will you? I'm sure you will. And just _who_ exactly do plan on so pitifully convincing to drag your stuff around for two weeks while you hobble along behind, Mister Sherlock Holmes?_

"Holmes, if there is anybody so obligated to assist you, it is certainly I," he said as if talking to a small child.

"Well, fine! Do as you please, then!"

"Oh, hang your ego, man. You know there is simply no way of getting around it."

"Of _course_, I know," I growled, folding my arms.

I sighed one last time just as the surrendering reality hit me. Trevor was right, there was no use trying to get out of it.

"If you _really_ feel the womanish need to salve your guilty conscience..." I left the sentence open, having neither the desire nor motivation to even finish it.

"That was a low blow, Holmes, even for you. However, I will _not_ take it as the personal jab I'm sure it was meant to be. And furthermore, _yes_, I do. You will remember that I am the one who got you into this mess in the first place. It is only fair that I should be helping you."

I gave him the courtesy of shutting up for a few moments after our little sparring match, but if he thought he was going to put me through a guilt trip...

"You know, if one of us is going to get funny looks Holmes, it'll be me," he said, and I looked back up at him.

"Yes, because everybody will be looking at you and they'll see what happened because of _me_."

"Surely that is not true."

"Trust me, it is. I have been getting a lot of those in the past week, believe it or not," he confided with an unenthusiastic smirk.

"I have already accepted your apology, have I not? It's in the past, Trevor. But... for what it's worth, you would do better by not endeavoring to treat me as a cripple," I said finally. I was met with a warm smile for my efforts, a relieving sight after having been most... well, _difficult_ with him (and yes, I admit it.)

"I understand, Holmes. I shall instead endeavor to try my best to do as you ask," he said, straightening himself to a full attentive stance and clasping his hands behind his back. I did not recognize what exactly was going through my mind at that time, but I was somehow struck by the sincerity of his resolve.

"... Since you so obviously feel the womanish need to salve your wounded pride."

I do not understand what happened next, either. I suppose it would hardly make sense for me to try and explain the sensation, but I shall try, nonetheless. It was almost as though... some small part of me, if that makes _any_ sense, despised him at that moment. I don't know. I suppose I sound like an absolute fool. How moronic am I for attempting the impossible task of trying to pull some nonexistent logic out of this emotional babbling?

The beginning of a tiny smirk that had unconsciously started to creep its way across my face was now turning into a most prominent scowl, and I very intentionally affixed him with an absolutely viperous glare.

"But can the gentleman take as good as he gives?" Trevor speculated, acknowledging my foul temper.

"You look like you want to kill me."

"That was a most off-color remark."

"And calling someone a rake isn't?"

Slowly, very slowly, the grimace dwindled along with the bitterness.

I nodded. No, I was _not_ going to affirm that he had been right, but what he had said was only _logical_. I didn't really want to say much at all anymore. I did not trust myself, being so compromised by confounded emotion...

"I know you're frustrated, Holmes. I would be, too. But at least you'll be walking again. I know you'd take two weeks of crutches over one more being bedridden."

"I am not angry with _you_, Trevor."

"I know," he smiled shrewdly. It was my immediate reaction to want to practically yell 'no, you don't,' but Trevor looked as though he knew _exactly_ what he was talking about, so I did not question him. And with nothing left to say, I sighed for the hundredth time. Truly, it was one of the most exasperating days in my memory.

"I think I'll leave you know," Trevor said quietly, tactfully.

"Y—"

I curbed my tongue. I was _not_ going to speak without thinking this time or let Trevor get the better of me.

"Very well."

"Bye, Holmes."

"Trevor."


	9. Sunday, February 21

That night was far and away worst than the last. Not that I hadn't slept, but unlike the previous night, my thoughts weighed much more heavily on my mind. Once again, Trevor had confounded me.

_Was he angry with me at all? He did not look or even sound to be very phased by antipathy. But he left so abruptly..._

_'Salve my wounded pride,' indeed. It _was_ an obnoxious thing to say..._

_No better than "the womanish need to salve your guilty conscience."_

Truly, I feared for a while that I had driven him away. I went so far as to wonder whether or not he'd even be back in the morning. I was _not_ a cripple, but still... I was going to need _somebody_, at least for the duration, and there was just no denying the fact. It might as well have been Trevor.

_I would rather no one else. Of course, I _have_ no one else, but still._

Not long afterward, the force of sheer exhaustion overcame me. It was about four o'clock in the morning.

* * *

"Rise and shine!"

I was smacked out of my sleep rather abruptly by this all-too-sanguine proclamation. (In fact, I had no idea that I had ever been prone to snoring until a rather undignified snort graced my ears as my eyes flew open. How embarrassing.)

_I wonder who _that_ could be._

"Wh-what? What time is it?" I asked hazily.

"Time? Time to get those lazy bones up and moving!"

"Doctor, I assure you there is nothing I look forward to more, but do you have to go yanking me out of bed this blessed early!?"

"Early? It's half past nine, for heaven's sake!"

_Where has my perception of time gone?_

"Oh... never mind."

The good doctor only grinned and offered me an arm.

"Come, you must recondition yourself to using your legs again, let alone learn how to maneuver around on these things."

For the first time, I saw that he was holding onto a pair of wooden crutches with the other arm.

"And I must say," he began, awkwardly shifting my weight onto one of the crutches (for it is not the easiest task when one's patient is a good six inches taller than one's self), "that these here are the tallest crutches I've ever needed to place an order for in my career. The manufacturer contacted me twice: once to make sure he had read my handwriting correctly, and again to make sure my measurements were accurate."

I tucked the other crutch underneath my left arm and, for the first time in seven days, relished the feeling of standing upright at my full height.

Sort of.

Indeed, it was quite a delicate task just to remain standing up at all, for my sense of equilibrium had not exactly benefited from not being exercised in a week. I felt as if I would topple over if I even so much as attempted to budge a single step.

"Alright. Now, one of the toughest parts, here, is going to be keeping the right foot up and off the ground at all times."

"I can see that."

"Careful, careful! Straighten those up. They'll slide out from underneath you otherwise."

I painstakingly did as the doctor asked me and dragged the crutches inward, but at least found it a bit easier to balance myself once the task was accomplished.

"Now, take a step forward."

After something of a brief hesitation, I lifted the things and brought them down only about a foot in front of me before taking an unsteady hop forward.

This continued for about five minutes as I hobbled around the room, adapting myself to the awkward things. By the end of that five minutes, however, I was ready to run out into the street (or so I thought.)

"There, you see? You'll be set to run laps again in no time," Stevenson said, before suddenly snapping his fingers.

"You have a package, by the way," he said, walking over to where he had apparently placed the parcel on the stool. When he turned around, I saw that in his hands, neatly pressed and folded, was none other than my suit. There was also a small piece of rather fine stationary on top of it.

"I'll leave you to get dressed, but I would hurry if I were you," he said, placing it on the bed and disappearing out the door. I sat down and snatched up the card.

_Thought you might like to have these back. I took the liberty of snatching this off your dresser. Do make yourself presentable. Will be by in a half-hour._

_-Victor_

When I looked back down at the bundle to find what he had been referring to in the informally-scrawled note, I saw my straight-razor sitting on top of my neck-tie, having been previously obscured by the little card itself. Unable to hold back a snort of laughter, I picked it up and opened it, studying my reflection in the blade. _God_, did I look awful. I am pale already, granted, but I never thought myself to be sallow. Dark circles hung under my bloodshot eyes, and my cheek bones had become unnaturally protruding. I was beginning to believe the doctor's insistence that I gain some weight was not entirely unfounded.

That, and a chickenish stubble was rather unbecoming on me, as well.

* * *

Getting dressed was not the easiest task with that bulging thing protruding from my leg, but it was accomplished in under ten minutes, nonetheless (an impressive time even in health.) Shaving was considerably easier, even though I did have to make due with a bar of hard soap in place of the usual surfactant. I have always been extraordinarily handy with a razor, however, and it is only on extremely rare occasions that I should ever nick myself. (Mycroft, on the other hand... Well, that is another story.)

Anyhow, by the time I had finished my rather bohemian toilette, I was in a more or less better spirit than I had been upon waking up, all things considered.

Trevor arrived only minutes later. Upon seeing me, he grinned outright.

"Good to see you standing up, Holmes!"

"Good to _be_ standing, Trevor," I said somewhat awkwardly. Apparently, he was not bitter in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Um... Trevor, I realize there were somewhat harsh words exchanged yesterday. Perhaps they were only jokes, I don't rightly know, but—"

"No worries, Holmes," Trevor (thankfully) cut off my muttering casually, easily, as if he never would have given it a second thought had I not brought it up.

"Alright, then," I barely murmured just as the doctor came in.

"Ah, good morning, Victor. I see you've come to escort my former patient back out into civilization," he said with the usual grin.

"You're free to go, Mister Holmes."

"Right. Thank you kindly, Doctor Stevenson."

"You're quite welcome, son. I hope I never have to see you here again," he said, extending a hand. I was reluctant to loosen my grip on the crutch, but took hold of his hand, anyway.

"As do I."

And so Trevor and I walked, him more or less stalling his pace to stay with me, down the hall and to the door easily enough, but soon after that a new problem stared me in the face—literally.

_And just how the _hell_ am I supposed to get down all these stairs?_

"Just... umm," Trevor fumbled, clearly trying to choose between assisting me and sparing my pride. Again.

"I think we might make use of the railing," he finally offered.

"I think that might be a good idea," I agreed. Truthfully, I had forgotten about the existence of a railing at all until he said something, being so unaccustomed to ever using one. So, steeling myself as I went, I hopped to the extremity of the staircase and placed the crutches on the first step. Holding my breath, I lowered myself down with as much caution as I would use handling a ticking time bomb. Thankfully, no crash ensued.

Finding the motion surprisingly easy, I took significantly less care when conquering the following four steps, and subsequently stumbled on the last one (as was bound to happen), the crutch having slipped off the edge of the stair.

I gasped, but Trevor held steadfast and discreetly grabbed my arm above the elbow, saving me a painful fall forward.

"Thank you," I whispered as I straightened out the crutch and got my footing on the ground. Trevor only fixed me with a rather brooding but somehow satisfied look.

"Thank _you_, Holmes."

I genuinely had no intention of being rude or wise, but I was helpless against the impulse to affix him with an expression that openly betrayed my confusion. He only grinned.

"I'm treating you to breakfast."

I blinked.

"What?" I asked dumbly, not a little bit rattled by this abrupt announcement.

"Come on. I'm starving, and I know you are. The question is, do you prefer flapjacks or beer for your morning sustenance?"

I could not help but knot my brows, taking a moment to process this query to make sure I had understood him correctly.

"I should say flapjacks; especially this early in the morning!"

"It's settled, then. Let's go over to the House of Red Leaves and get some food."

"Victor—"

"I can already catch a whiff of the coffee from here, and it smells divine—"

"Victor!"

"Yes?" He turned to me with the most innocent countenance, as though this behavior were perfectly normal.

"I... Well... I'm grateful for the offer, but you really don't have to do this."

"_Having_ to has nothing to do with it, Holmes. Or sympathy, for that matter. I want to."

That was the final straw. I wanted to know what the devil he was driving at, and I wanted to know _now_.

"What do you mean you _want_ to?"

Now it was Trevor's turn to be confused.

"I mean exactly what I said, Holmes. Now stop standing there looking perplexed and either accept or decline my invitation."

"I..."

I froze. No response readily came. I _was_ starving...

But why had he _asked_?

"Is that your confounded pride doing the thinking for you again? I'll be glad of the company, Holmes."

"Yes, but..."

_My__ company?_

"Well... Alright," I finally agreed, though I was still very much in the dark. He smiled once again, although his previous statement had been only partially correct. True, my pride had taken over a significant portion of my reasoning, but my _stomach_ had taken an even more significant one. And that was enough.

"Very good. Come along, then," he chimed, and we started across the street.

_It is a defect of the aristocracy that they spend their money in any way they please and leave the rest of us to look on scratching our heads._

The place was beginning to fill up just as Trevor secured a table for us, and I smirked as he very pointedly neglected to remove his hat. A waiter handed us a menu apiece as we sat down.

"May I take that for you, sir?"

Trevor paused. A moment later, he dubiously ran his finger over the wall. Finding that it displayed no trace of yellow paint, he gave a satisfied nod and handed the garment over to the slightly disconcerted waiter. I laughed outright as he walked away to prepare our coffees.

"Which looks better to you: the French toast or the bread pudding?" he asked me as we both observed two rather generous platters of each dish being delivered to a nearby table.

"They both look good after a week of mutton and cold tea."

He snickered.

"But I think I find myself partial to the latter."

For the first time, I turned my attention to the menu. The faint sense of cheer that had begun to disperse through me faltered—I did _not_ find myself partial to the price of the bread pudding... or any of the dishes, for that matter.

"Mm, yes, I think I'll go with the strawberry crêpes," he said absently.

I referenced the menu quickly and felt a bit of relief—at least his was more expensive than mine.

The waiter came back with our coffees and we ordered. We did not really chat much afterward, but the silence was comfortable. Both our eyes were drifting around the place—I was focusing on the left-handed shoe-repair man who was treating his little niece to breakfast, while Trevor seemed to be occupied with a most comely blonde sitting by the window... and then a brunette... and finally settling a most admiring gaze on the redhead who was wearing a rather provocative shade of lipstick.

"Don't bother, Victor. She's been married twice, and that man sitting across from her isn't even her husband."

"How do _you_ know?"

"Oh, never mind."

"You can't just accuse somebody of that and then—"

"I shall explain later, then. Right now I'm more concerned with finishing every morsel of this bread pudding," I said hungrily as the waiter placed our meals in front of us.

"That's the most sensible thing you've said all day," Trevor muttered as he dug into his own plate. To this day, I don't think I've had a better meal. Strike that, I _know_ I have not had a better meal.

Well, it had been a good meal until the cheque came.

"I'll take that, thank you," Trevor said as soon as the waiter arrived, so I did not get the chance to see exactly what the damages were. But between our meals and four cups of coffee at such outrageous prices... well, the damages were _heavy_.

"I'm surprised you have not gone destitute by now if you've made it such a regular habit to treat your friends to breakfast _here_."

"Well, seeing as where you're the only one I have, I think I shall manage to stay afloat for a good long while to come."

I choked on my coffee.

"Watch it; that's hot."

"Trevor, when did _I_ become your friend?"

"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't be, at this point," he said nonchalantly. I flushed as I made a mad grab for my napkin and attempted to mop up the coffee that had most nauseatingly just spewed its way out of my nose. Trevor seemed not to notice.

"And did I also hear you say that I am the _only_ one you had?"

"Yes, you did. What of it?"

"Well... I just thought it strange because... The situation is mutual."

His eyes went wide with shock.

"Really?"

"Yes, _really_, Trevor," I snapped. I thought he had been teasing me again, but it soon became apparent that such was not the case. He merely took a moment to digest this information and shook his head dismissively.

"I just find that rather hard to believe. You're good company."

I took a hard, scrutinizing reconnaissance at Victor Trevor. He seemed _sane_, at least, as far as I could determine. I came to the conclusion, however that he certainly was... an odd one. Not that I could fault him for it, (or anyone, for that matter), for that in itself would have been uncannily self-depreciating. But still...

"Your compliment is unmerited."

"V_erecundia impedio potentia_." *

"I don't believe in modesty."

He opened his mouth to say something, faltered, and closed it.

"You'll have to explain that one later, as well... You seriously don't have _any_ friends?"

"For the last time—"

"Alright, alright!"

The conversation shifted to silence once again as we each tactfully decided to resume studying the scene around us. A somewhat loud crack drew our attention to a table across the room, where a rather rotund gentleman had just upset his chair in the process of standing up.

"It truly amazes me, the capacity of some people's stomachs," I muttered, thoroughly disgusted, more or less thinking of Mycroft.

"Mm. Both of them," Trevor nodded thoughtfully. I drew my soiled napkin over my mouth and feigned a cough to hide my smile.

"Oh, God. Don't look now," Trevor suddenly breathed in a harsh, panicked whisper, cupping his forehead with his left hand to obscure his face from the general population and focusing straight ahead at me. I did steal a glance to my side, however, only to find that the above-mentioned fellow was indeed throwing a very nasty glare in our general direction.

"Dammit," I muttered, mirroring Trevor's lead of quickly but subtly turning away and locking my gaze dead ahead. When the man finally did head for the door after some moments, we both began to relax a little.

"That was awful," Trevor remarked, his face glowing crimson.

"I suppose he must have overheard us somehow."

"A stunning observation, Trevor."

"What is it with all this 'observation and deduction' business of yours anyway, Holmes?"

"Another subject for a later date."

I barely heard him muse something along the lines of "well, of course, we haven't got plenty of those already, have we?"

Yet, I still could not grasp onto the fact that he was as friendless as I. _I_ certainly have cause to be. What reason have I to put up with any body's irrelevant prattle? People are ignorant, judgmental, narrow-minded, and stupid. (Not to mention that nobody recognizes true brilliance when they see it. _Nobody_.) It is an undisputed fact. I honestly wish they would all just get out of the way and leave me be. (In fact, this whole episode had taken place just weeks after my only room-mate had requested to be transferred to another dormitory. The relief was mutual when he left, though I admit to being slightly jaded at having driven the man to the point where he looked back at me one last time after having stepped out the door and gave me the gracious farewell of "good riddance.")

Bearing this in mind, it is no surprise that I, myself, have not managed to root out many a suitable companion at all, and I can quite honestly testify that the fact has never phased me in the least. Trevor, however, was my polar opposite—he was sprightly, energetic, talkative, and had an unequaled (if provocative) sense of humor.

_So how has it come to pass that this fellow sitting across from me has ended up in the exact same position as I?_

There was certainly, however, a peculiar air about him. I am no stranger to eccentricities, obviously, but "eccentric" was not an applicable word to describe this curious underlying haze of his. "Abnormal" would have been more fitting, in retrospect, as though something about him had not been quite balanced, although I did not fully comprehend it.

"Shall we get out of here?" Trevor asked after a few minutes, apparently becoming as claustrophobic as I as the tiny place began to fill to the point of being unbearably packed with people.

"Let's," I answered tersely, picking up my crutches as Trevor stood. We made our way out through the dense atmosphere of perfume and chatter and clinking of silverware into the street.

"Would you care for a walk? Or do you wish to return to your room? Actually... Would it be wise to burden that foot?" he weighed.

"Trevor, I don't care _what_ the doctor says regarding the matter. I'm not about to relocate myself from one small room to another just yet. If you'll pardon the platitude, I believe I could very much use some fresh air... even if it is scarce in this city."

"Capital!" Trevor grinned, swinging his cane over his shoulder.

* * *

_* _Latin, "modesty hinders potential." Or, at least these questionable on line translators say so. I don't speak Latin. Sorry.


	10. To Continue

A/N: I probably should have said this before, but I would just like to point out that I have NO idea where Charing-Cross is or what it looked like. Likewise for this anonymous "University" Holmes mentioned in_ The Gloria Scott_. But, heck, if our man ACD can write a fake detective, I can write a fake college. On with the show.

* * *

"What a lovely day!"

"Mmn."

"That's less enthusiastic than I would have thought, coming from a man who's just spent a week in a hospital."

"It's nice,"

I mumbled absently, to which Trevor only laughed. Indeed, it _was_ nice—far too nice for a February. The air had a note of coolness to it, but this was mostly canceled out by the persisting sunlight. There were very few clouds, as well, and the wind was fairly calm, only an occasional breeze drifting about here and there.

"Yes, only thirty more days 'till spring equinox. Which is fortunate, because the lock on the door to the hall of residence has been freezing as of late—"

"Spring _what_?"

"The March equinox, Holmes."

"Trevor, the first day of spring is on March twenty-first. What is the meaning of all this 'equinox' jabber?"

Trevor halted in his tracks and surveyed me with disbelief.

"It is not 'jabber,' Holmes. You mean to tell me you really don't know?"

"Not a clue," I confirmed, beginning my pace again. Trevor skipped a step or two to catch up with me.

"Holmes, an equinox occurs when the planet's axis is tilted neither towards nor away from the sun, the sun being at a point vertically above the equator."

"What's _that_ got to do with anything?"

"It's why we have seasons, Holmes!"

"Trevor, I _know_ the difference between summer, spring, autumn, and winter. And none of my definitions of those need have _anything_ to do with where the sun is."

"Where the _earth_ is!"

"Who cares!"

"Oh my God, Holmes," Trevor blurted out, quite suddenly dissolving into a peal of laughter.

"We were supposed to learn this in the third grade."

"What you don't understand, Trevor, is that I _do not_ care."

"Oh, I had managed to pick up on that."

"All this babble about the sun and the moon and the stars. Let me ask you this: if our four seasons were to remain perfectly intact and regular, would you give a damn if the earth made figure-eights around Neptune?" I asked logically, consciously ignoring the passing glares resulting from my breach of conduct.

"Well, that would be impossible, but no, I suppose not," he chortled. I turned in the direction of my own hall of residence at the next street corner. My arms were beginning to ring with a dull ache that persisted and grew stronger with every limping step.

"Holmes."

"What?"

"Which is the worse: ignorance or apathy?"

"I don't know and I don't care."

"Exactly."

"Oh, was that the punchline? I thought you had simply been spitting out proverbs again."

I had not meant to be sarcastic or insulting, but nevertheless, I managed to drive every trace of good humor from his face, leaving behind an appearance that was neither insulted nor provoked, but apologetic and somehow intimidated. He pressed his lips together in acknowledgment and averted his gaze forward.

"Er... Not that I mind," was all I could manage to come up with in order to clarify that my careless choice of words had not been out of rancor. By the time Trevor returned his attention to me, that impertinent smirk had found its way right back across his face.

"Subtle," was the only word he uttered in response to my embarrassingly blatant apology.

"Let us make one thing clear for future reference, Trevor. In the interest of saving energy and time, please be outright and direct if you ever wish to tell me anything, because I promise you I will do the same whether you like it or not."

Quite unexpectedly, Trevor gave a crisp, pleasant laugh and his eyes twinkled with an unfamiliar sparkle of delight. I had never seen him in such a high spirit, and I certainly had not the faintest clue of what I had said or done to elicit this response from him.

"I rather like your policy, Holmes."

"Ouch!"

"What is it?"

Trevor stopped dead in his tracks and reeled towards me, looking as though he fully expected me to collapse onto the sidewalk at any moment and was preparing to catch me. In truth, I would not have minded if I did simply to relieve the acute pain and pressure that those damned crutches were wreaking on my underarms. Not to mention the fact that my leg had begun to cramp in protest of being deprived of the morphine I had been receiving fairly steadily all week.

"Nothing, Trevor, just sore arms."

"You look like it's much more severe than that, Holmes. We are going back to your room."

"On the latter note, I'll agree."

It took us a good ten minutes just to make our way back to the building, when under normal circumstances, it would have taken me only six. My tread was growing steadily worse along with the the pain under my arms, which were beginning to chafe. Trevor, somehow under the impression that if I fell, I was going to land right in the street and be trampled by a passing hansom, decided to switch to walking on my left side, where he treaded so close to me that I consciously had to avoid hitting him with my crutch or stepping on him. He came pathetically close to walking right into several light posts, having been more focused on me than on what was in front of him, but I was far too mortified to say anything.

Suffice it to say that the pain was to the point where I had begun to sweat by the time we reached the hall, and I realized too late after giving a brusque thank-you to Trevor that he had no intention of leaving me there. I had altogether forgotten the three flights of stairs that preceded my door (oh, God, the day when a flight of stairs should be the greatest of my troubles...)

For the sake of my self-esteem, I shall not describe what that prolonged and pitiful climb was like. I shall only say that I have never been through so much physical suffering in my _life_, not even when that mongrel had decided that my leg was edible. By the time we reached the door, I could hardly even keep my grip on the crutches at all, although I felt that I had at least done a halfway-decent job of obscuring any signs of my discomfort.

"I have your key," Trevor said, withdrawing it and unlocking the door. No later than he had done so, I stumbled into my quarters and promptly crashed rather ungracefully onto the bed, flinging those accursed crutches onto the floor.

"Holmes? _Holmes_! Are you alright!?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine, Victor," I panted, although the statement was a complete and utter lie. My arms felt as though they were about to detach from my torso, and the skin underneath them was stinging and tender. The cramp in my leg had also, due to my carelessly ramming down it rather hard onto the mattress, escalated to a sharp, excruciating throb.

"I don't think you are," Trevor shook his head.

"As if there is much we can do about it now."

"Perhaps we should go back to the hospital."

"Are you seriously driven to panic so easily, Victor?"

"I am _not_ panicking!"

"My friend, there is a mirror directly to your left. Pray look into it yourself and tell me if you are not the quintessence of the word."

"This is no time for games, Holmes!" he all but shouted, but I had ceased to listen.

"_My friend?" Did I _really_ just call Victor Trevor "my friend?"_

"Holmes, I really think we should get you back to Charing-Cross."

"Trevor," I nigh on growled, "Not half an hour ago, I made an agreement with you that I would always be relentlessly straightforward and explicit in my manner of speech. Now, I am going to sleep, but before I do, I wish to make one thing abundantly clear: If, when I awaken, I am in a hospital bed with Doctor Stevenson looming over me, I am going to decapitate you."

The show that followed was one of which I love to picture—I snicker about it to this day. His jaw _dropped_—I thought it was going to come off its hinges. This, combined with the absolutely globular bulging of his eyes, made him look rather like a fish. I was not a little gratified (not to mentioned tickled) to come aware of the fact that it was my threat in _itself_—and not some innate reaction to my rudeness as I had first thought—that was making him squirm so. Nevertheless, I continued to masquerade my demeanor as deadpan and humorless, praying to God that Trevor would not wake up to the fact that I was going to be largely confined to limping about on crutches for weeks to come.

"You're being very unfair, Holmes."

"Would you _please_ calm down?"

"Calm down? You're _white_!"

_I am?_

Once again, I endeavored to pull the straight-razor out of my pocket and utilize the blade as a mirror. Oddly enough, the face that stared back at me seemed to extensively corroborate Trevor's concern.

_Such a fickle and transparent thing is the body, really, that it should so prominently manifest on its very surface all I have been so diligently trying to hide._

"Are you feverish?" he asked, and then quite suddenly pressed the back of one hand to my forehead, much to my outrage.

"For the love of God, Trevor, enough!" I objected more loudly than I perhaps should have and knocking his hand away rather sharply, "Do you expect me to expire right here? Either cease this absurd fussing at once or leave!"

He stood there brooding for a moment, studying me with a concerned but obviously peeved expression, and finally gave a frustrated sigh. I fully expected him to turn around and leave, but no, he only took a long stride forward and rather brashly took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"_Trevor_," I ground my teeth, staring up at the ceiling. Even he knew at this point that I was liable to explode, but he held his position firmly even on such unstable ground.

"You're enough to drive a man into dementia."

"Why, thank you. Now, as you so vigilantly pointed out, we are both being quite frank with each other... Perhaps a little bit _too_ frank, as demonstration has show, but that's just my opinion."

Trevor paused as an amused snicker escaped me.

"You're either a master of diplomacy or of understatements, Trevor. Do continue."

"Anyway, my point being this: I am staying right the hell _in this spot_ until I see you regain some color."

This time, it was my turn to play the fish. True, my mind screamed in protest at being ordered around in so impudent a manner (or any manner, for that matter), but I was more preoccupied with why in the world he even _cared_. Of course, I was in pain, but I was not going to die by any means.

_Besides, it is not as though I can _force_ him to leave._

"For your peace of mind, Trevor," I exhaled, sinking down onto the pillow and shutting my eyes, "and not my health."

* * *

I saw black lidded with a yellow haze, heard myself inhale, let out the breath, but did not open my eyes. I listened—not a sound.

_Then Trevor is gone._

A brief "flick" caught my attention, so I pricked up my ears and remained alert. Surely enough, I heard it again a few minutes later. I barely cracked open my eyelids only to find Victor Trevor comfortably propped on the edge of my bed in the same place he had been before, only with a rather dog-eared copy of Melville's _Moby-Dick_ in hand.

"You're still here, Trevor?"

He gave something of a start, but then smiled and nodded.

"That's looking so much better, Holmes. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, as you said. You really didn't have to stay here."

"Well, I..."

"But you felt you had to, of course. Of course," I filled in his sentence, although not derisive or mockingly at all.

"You're an enthusiast of American literature?"

"Well," he began, coloring slightly, "I wouldn't put it quite like that, although this particular volume, as you can see, has been... loved."

"Romantic drivel."

"You really think so?"

"Well, it _is_ only a story, after all. It has no practical applications. Why bother?"

"It's called 'reading for pleasure.'"

"So? I rather enjoy reading my text-books."

"Yes, but at the cost of being jam-packed with information, they're also dry as bones. I'm rather surprised you don't take any interest in novels at all, Holmes."

"And why is that?"

"Well, there's much more to the story than what meets the eye. Underneath the plot are symbols, metaphors, _meaning_—it can be quite a challenge to wrap one's mind around and decipher everything that lays hidden beneath the simple text. For instance, the name of the main character... Well, I don't want to spoil it."

"What, you think I'm ever going to read it?"

He promptly snapped the book shut and held it out to me. Trevor was just that kind of inconceivably generous person—if you ever said you liked something of his, chances were, he'd give it to you gladly. Not yet having realized this, I stared at him dumbly and mechanically reached out to take the book from him, figuring that it would be rude and ungrateful not to. I quickly leafed through the pages (it had been loved, indeed) before finally settling at the beginning.

"_Call me Ishmael._ And this is supposed to hold some deep meaning?"

"Oh, just read it and find out. That is, _if_ you ever figure it out."

This raised an eyebrow.

"I detect you are challenging me, Victor. Another hint for future reference: that is very unwise, in most cases."

"The keyword being _most_."

"Trite but true, even here. I'll leave you to ascertain which ones they are."

Trevor stayed a while longer, and his visits also remained constant, for I was still unable to attend my classes for another two days. He was also of invaluable assistance to me in the weeks to come, how ever much I disliked the fact at the time. It was not until two weeks later, when I had no further need of the crutches and subsequently _him_, that I began to comprehend the nature of the... I daresay "attachment" I had formed with him. Not only did it have nothing to do with "needing" him, although it had started that way, (am I prattling again?), but it was also, much to our contentment, mutual.

And it stayed that way for some time to come.


	11. The More I See of Man

"Mister Holmes!"

What is that noise? And why the devil do I feel _water_ on my face? Is that concrete...?

"Mister Holmes! Are you alright?"

I'm on the ground, aren't I?

I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder and give it a none-too-delicate shake. Upon finally opening my eyes to find out who the idiot working my arm out of its socket is, I am greeted with no face other than that of a somewhat disheveled Inspector Lestrade.

"Let go of me, you moron!"

"Well, ex-_cuse_ me, Mister I-think-it-would-be-a-good-idea-to-scour-dark-alleys-in-the-east-district-and-get-myself-killed. By God, you're lucky I showed up when I did, because otherwise—"

"Stands. Where's Stands?"

"Nowhere to be found, unfortunately."

Did I just hear him correctly?

"_What_!? Lest-_rade_, how could you _possibly_ bungle this up!? I _had_ him, Lestrade! I had him right..."

Where had I had him? I need a moment to adjust my bearings. Where am_ I_?

"Through that house, right there! On the other side of that flat, there!"

"I know, Mister Holmes, that entire house is swimming with my men as we speak. We found Bennett there not a few minutes ago, along with at least four strongboxes and possibly more. Among these was a tin lockbox that matches the police report of the Kolfsheim murder exactly. So it seems we have an accomplice of that crime thanks to you, Mister Holmes."

"Not good enough, Lestrade. Not good enough."

"As if there is much we can do about it! Look behind you, for God's sake!"

Why?

"Lestrade...? What exactly happened here within the last five minutes?"

"You came bursting out of that house like it was on fire, so I was preparing to get my cuffs out before I saw _these_ huge monsters hot on your trail. Looks like one of 'em damn near got you, for you tripped... and took a blow to the head something awful. You're lucky I brought my pistol tonight."

I was, indeed. The carcasses had not even ceased to bleed yet.

"Half a moment, Lestrade! You say these animals were less than mere inches from me and you fired on them, anyway!?"

"Given the choice between the fairly low probability of a stray bullet and a more than likely rabid set of teeth—"

"Oh, stop. Just _stop_. This is useless. I'm going back to Montague Street."

"But, Mister Holmes, if you don't mind my saying so, that's a pretty deep gash you've got there on your palm."

"Your point being?"

"It'll need to get stitched up."

"I don't care."

"Now don't be foolish, Mister Holmes. If that's not treated properly—"

"Then I'll have a scar! That's just _fine_ with me! Good evening!"

Why can't I do _anything_ right?

I reach up and smear the now-useless makeup from my eye. It's beginning to run all over my face with the rainwater, anyway. I suppose the only thing I can do now is retreat home and _try_ to find some lead on Stands after I _try_ to figure out where I went wrong in my disguise. Neither is likely to come.

Lestrade was right. This cut _is_ deep. But I don't care. I don't care if it needs stitches. I don't care if it becomes infected and they have to amputate my hand. I just don't care.

I have failed.

Amazing, is it not, how the events of a whole week, one hundred and sixty-eight hours, can replay itself in the mind's eye within the space of no more than a minute. Like some kind of twisted judgment. I suppose that will only be one _more_ thing weighing on my mind to-night. Just what I need. It's not as though I even have Trevor anymore. Perhaps it's better that way.

I _hate_ dogs.

**END**

* * *

We've reached it.

Thank you all so much for reading. This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, so I would really appreciate reviews.

Oh, and the quote is "the more I see of man, the more I like dogs."


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